


Clarity of Vision

by Mithen



Series: Clarity of Vision [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Quest, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 94,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain.  Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo Baggins finds himself in Bree on a rainy day with a very important quest--to buy sweets for his birthday party.

Bilbo Baggins gazed at the challenge ahead of him, unsure whether or not he was up to it. It was daunting--even terrifying--but he had to get through it, no matter what. 

Taking a deep breath, he mustered up all his courage and plunged through the western gate into the big city of Bree.

The instant he passed into the town, he was reminded of why he did his best to never, ever visit Bree. It was ugly, it was noisy, and worst of all, it was _crowded_ : crowded full of men that towered above him and looked down on him and made him feel small. But even the hobbits of Bree were different: big city hobbits who didn't have the leisure to have a little smoke and pass the time with a fellow hobbit, no. Everyone here was busy and bustling, and Bilbo Baggins hated it.

 _Never again!_ he thought, dodging screaming, horrifyingly tall human children and looking out for piles of horse dung. _Not for any reason!_ To make things even worse, it looked like rain, the clouds gathering and the wind picking up. Finally he spotted the store he was looking for: _Sapphire's Sweets_ , with its famous sign edged with blue gems. He ducked inside, relieved, as the first drops of rain began to spatter the dusty road.

The bell jingled as he entered, but Sapphire--a middle-aged hobbit with her blond hair looped in braids--was busy with other customers and only gave him a cursory nod. Bilbo looked at the different sweets on her shelves, trying to make clear from his posture that he had come on Important Business. After all, he reminded himself, he had worn his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and his midnight-blue velveteen trousers, and that could hardly fail to make an impression.

Well, at least in Hobbiton, he had to conclude as Sapphire continued to ignore him for other customers, some who had come in later than himself. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me?"

Sapphire finished up with her current customer before turning to him. "May I help you?" she asked.

"Well, I do hope so. I am Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End," he started impressively.

"Is that in the Shire?" Sapphire asked, causing Bilbo to lose some steam.

"Yes, well...exactly. Anyway, my fiftieth birthday is coming up soon, and I was hoping to order fifty of your famous spun-sugar animals to give away to the children at my party. Some badgers, some turtles, some pigs--oh, and definitely one olifaunt. It's for Primula Brandybuck," he explained, "A dear little tyke, one of my favorite cousins, and she loves hearing stories about olifaunts." He chuckled fondly.

Sapphire had an expression on her face that hinted she was uninterested in the details of Bilbo Baggins' birthday parties. "Fifty spun-sugar animals," she said, scribbling on a piece of paper. "They'll be done in three days."

Bilbo swallowed his chagrin--he had hoped he could escape this city and return home sooner than that. Fortunately, he had brought provisions for nearly a week, and he could pass the time visiting various distant cousins (ones mad enough to live in Bree) and delivering them gifts and treats from the Shire. "Very well," he announced to the unimpressed Sapphire, "I shall return at that time."

At least he had had the foresight to bring his umbrella, he consoled himself as he pulled it out of his backpack, looking out the window at the rain that was streaking down the glass. Technically his mother's umbrella--high-quality oiled paper was hard to come by, so it was a family heirloom. As he stepped outside he opened it, enjoying the way the cheerful daisy patterns bloomed above his head.

In his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and velveteen trousers, brandishing his daisy-patterned umbrella, Bilbo Baggins began to make his way to the Prancing Pony.

The umbrella blocked his vision, making it difficult to dodge puddles, and soon his feet were soaked and muddy. Grimacing, he jumped nimbly over a large, dirty puddle--

\--And collided in midair with an immovable object that sent him tumbling backwards into the middle of the water. He heard a _snap_ and had time to hope it wasn't his ribs before landing with an extremely undignified _sploosh_.

Sitting in the mud, he shook his head, feeling dazed. _Why was there a wall in the middle of the street?_ As he scrambled to his feet, though, he realized he had not collided with a wall at all.

Before him stood a person taller and broader than a hobbit, yet shorter than a man, glowering down on him from under a midnight-blue hood that was dripping with rain. Beneath the hood was a bearded face and two keen eyes that were currently snapping with impatience.

"Fornost," growled the dwarf--for dwarf it must be, although Bilbo had never met one. "How do we get there?"

Bilbo gaped at the dwarf before gathering his wits. "Well, I like that!" he huffed. "The least you could do is say 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you run straight into a hobbit that's just minding his business, knocking him into the mud and--oh dear," he added, looking up, "breaking his umbrella!" For indeed, his mother's umbrella hung limply on one side, one of its stretchers broken in the collision. "Oh dear, oh dear." He closed the umbrella, heedless of the rain that soaked him--how much wetter could he get?--and looked at it in dismay. "I must say," he said, rounding on his assailant again, "That you could take some lessons in manners!"

The dwarf glared down at him. " _You_ ran into _me_ , not--"

"--For mercy's sake, Thorin, this is neither the time nor place," said a new voice. Bilbo realized that there were two other dwarves behind the rude one: the one who had just spoken had a pure white beard that forked at the bottom, and the other's bald head was covered with tattoos. "You've startled the lad and broken his umbrella, there's no need to bark at him as well."

The rude dwarf--Thorin, apparently--made an exasperated noise and turned to stride away through the rain.

"Don't mind him," said the white-bearded dwarf, looking after him with a sigh.

"Aye, he's always that way," agreed the bald dwarf, his voice a rumble.

"But where are _my_ manners!" exclaimed the first dwarf. "I am Balin, at your service," he said with a polite bow.

"Dwalin, at your service," the other dwarf said, also bowing.

Bilbo squeezed rain out of his dripping hair and blinked dubiously at the two of them. "Bilbo Baggins...um, at yours," he said. He started to step around them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the Prancing Pony--"

Balin and Dwalin fell into step on either side of him; Balin extracted the broken umbrella from his grip. "Why, that's where we are staying as well! Let us treat you to a drink in order to apologize for Thorin's rudeness," he said, and Bilbo found himself marched inexorably to the inn, cheerfully escorted by the two dwarves.

The Prancing Pony was the best inn in Bree--but then, it was the only inn in Bree, and Bilbo was glad enough of its warmth after the cold fall rain. Its rough-hewn rafters were wreathed in smoke above--far above, to Bilbo's eyes, for the common room was made to accommodate men as well as hobbits.

"Here now, innkeeper!" cried Balin, ringing the bell at the front desk. "A room for this fine hobbit!"

A stout man with a halo of white hair emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on an apron. "Very well, Master Dwarf, there's no need to yell," he said. He smiled down at Bilbo. "Welcome to the Prancing Pony, sir! Benjamin Butterbur, at your service. And I believe we have a room suited for hobbits open still--in the north wing, near the ground, with everything made small-like."

 _"Proper_ size, you mean," Bilbo muttered to himself, but signed his name on the ledger and picked up the key. 

"Mr. Butterbur, fetch us a fine meal!" Balin announced. Bilbo, who had been hoping to slip away to his room, stopped at the mention of food and let Dwalin lead him to a table in the corner, near the cozy roaring fire. But his heart sank again when Balin added, "Dinner for four, and don't stint on the wine, good sir!"

"Four?" Bilbo stifled a groan. "Is that Thorin fellow going to join us?"

Dwalin tossed a cloth in his direction. "Dry off or you'll catch your death of cold, lad. And Thorin's not so bad once you get used to him."

"How long does _that_ take?" muttered Bilbo, and Dwalin and Balin exchanged a smiling look.

"Well, we've been on the road together near ten years now," said Balin. "And before that...how long have we known him, brother?"

"Oh, he must be going on a hundred and ninety now," said Dwalin thoughtfully. 

"A hundred and--"

Bilbo's sputtered exclamation was cut off by the sound of the door opening again; he turned to see Thorin himself framed in the doorway, the stormy twilight rain behind him. Somehow he seemed to fill even a door made for men, and when he strode into the room all eyes were drawn to him.

He ignored their looks and went to the table where his companions sat, pulling back his hood to reveal a tangle of dark hair gemmed with rain. "It seems Fornost is a few day's ride to the north. And in Fornost, perhaps--" his voice broke off as he took in Bilbo on the other side of the table. "You. What are you doing here?"

"He's staying here as well," Balin said quickly. "He'll be dining with us tonight."

Thorin rolled his eyes, removing his heavy fur-trimmed cloak to reveal leather armor studded with silver and a heavy sword hanging at his side. "We can't afford to treat to a meal every person I offend on the road," he muttered, sitting down.

"I've no doubt of that," Bilbo shot back, as Thorin glowered at him. "And Fornost? Why in the world are you going to Fornost?"

"You've heard of it?" Balin asked, as Thorin sat forward in his chair and then leaned back again as if to stress his lack of interest, gazing into the fire. "Have you been there?"

" _Been_ there?" Bilbo couldn't help laughing. It was like asking if he'd been to the moon. "Good heavens, no. I've read about it in history books, but it's just a bunch of ruins. There's nothing there."

Thorin made an annoyed sound. "He knows nothing beyond his well-fed belly and his pretty umbrella, Balin."

His words recalled to Bilbo his righteous indignation. "My _broken_ umbrella, thanks to you."

"Now, now," said Balin placatingly, "Let's not--"

"--Wine," interrupted Dwalin as four large goblets were put in front of them.

Thorin raised his, meeting the gazes of the other two dwarves. "Health and long life to Thrór, son of Dain, son of Nain, King under the Mountain!" he announced.

"To the King under the Mountain," echoed Balin and Dwalin, their voices solemn.

"Yes, to...uh, to him," Bilbo said, lifting his man-sized goblet in salute with some effort. He took a sip and coughed as raw red wine burned his throat.

"Too strong for you?" Thorin asked, lifting an eyebrow. 

"Not at all, not at all!" Bilbo said. "I'm just used to higher quality in my wine," he said airily, taking another, larger sip. "So, why are you going to Fornost?"

Thorin gave him a suspicious look. "I do not speak of our affairs to strangers on the road."

"Aye, he's certainly got the look of a spy," snorted Dwalin.

Bilbo huffed. "I do not--oh, you're being sarcastic." He took another swallow of wine. It wasn't so bad, once you got used to the sharpness of it. "Well, I _could_ be a spy," he added defensively, feeling somehow insulted.

"No you couldn't, lad," said Balin gently.

"Food," grunted Dwalin, picking up his knife and fork as a plate laden with cheese, meat and bread was put in front of him. For a time there was no sound except enthusiastic eating, and Bilbo couldn't help but notice that for all Thorin's disparaging remarks, the dwarves were more than equal to a hobbit in appetite. 

The fire was warm and his goblet was empty, Bilbo realized, blinking into it. A full one materialized next to his elbow and he took another long sip, feeling pleasantly sleepy. "It's a dangerous road up to Fornost, if I remember my maps right," he said a bit muzzily. 

"Dwarves do not shy away from danger," Thorin rumbled. 

Bilbo frowned and banged his goblet down on the table with a little more force than he intended. "Now see here, mister! I know what you're implying, and I have to say I don't appreciate it one bit!" He shook a finger at Thorin, realized he was off by a foot or so, and re-adjusted. "You don't know anything about hobbits, and you don't know anything about me. But if all dwarves are as rude and judgmental as yourself, it's no wonder we have little to do with you!" 

Thorin's eyes narrowed. Balin cleared his throat urgently, but he snarled over the sound. "And _you_ know nothing of the world, halfling, and you may count yourself lucky! You travel to Bree and think yourself adventurous, then consider it a hardship when your umbrella is broken! You know nothing of adversity, nothing of suffering, and nothing of heroism--you with your silly brocaded waistcoat and your pocket-handkerchiefs and your purple braces."

"Plum-colored," Bilbo corrected him without thinking. "Really, if you don't know the difference between purple and plum-colored, I hardly think--"

Thorin made an inarticulate sound of fury. "You ridiculous little being! You would not last a day outside your safe little world."

Bilbo took another swallow of wine and glared at him. He was not usually so pugnacious, but the wine and Thorin's rudeness had gotten his back up. "I have half a mind to go with you and prove you wrong!"

Thorin threw back his head and laughed as if he couldn't help himself, leaving Bilbo seething. "I would like to see that," he chuckled, wiping his eyes. He leaned forward and cuffed Bilbo lightly on the shoulder, his good humor apparently restored at the image. "Come now, Master Halfling, finish your wine and toddle off to your snug little bed to dream of adventure."

Bilbo blinked into his goblet, surprised to find that it was empty again. "I guess I already did," he muttered. "But you're wrong about me, you know. If you really are almost two hundred years old, I would expect you to know better than to judge by shup--superfish--um, first impressions." He crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them to keep the inn from spinning quite so much. He yawned. "The wine was a little strong, don't you think?" he said. Or started to say, but somewhere in the middle of the sentence the words got rather fuzzy and slow, and he nodded off into darkness.

Bird song and a square of sunlight across his face woke him. Blinking blearily, he sat up, then clutched at his head for a moment, groaning. Peering down at himself he realized that instead of his second-best waistcoat, he was looking at an expanse of white linen--his nightshirt, to be precise.

"Wha?" His head jerked up, and ignoring the hammering behind his eyes he stared around the room.

He was in his room at the Prancing Pony, on his bed. His pack was on the floor at the base of the bed, lying open--Bilbo jumped up in a panic and rummaged through it, relieved to find that everything was still in place. His change of clothes, his three embroidered handkerchiefs, the lemon drops, the butterscotch biscuits, the packet of viola tea, it was all there. 

He looked up from the pack to see his velveteen trousers folded across the foot of the bed. He picked them up and looked at them: free of mud and brushed clean and dry. 

Leaning against the bed was his mother's umbrella. Gingerly, Bilbo opened it. The broken spreader was cleverly mended, as good as new.

Bilbo Baggins stood in the middle of the room, blinking up at the sun shining through the daisies.

**: : :**

It was still sunny three days later when Bilbo Baggins emerged from the Prancing Pony to pick up his sweets. He hadn't felt much like leaving his room for the first two days, so he never had gotten to visit his relatives.

The innkeeper had informed him the first morning that the three dwarves had checked out early, and there had been no further sign of them.

He got to Sapphire's Sweets without incident and picked up his brown-wrapped package with "Fragile!" stamped all over it. The little bells jangled as he left the store and began to walk along the rutted street toward the stables. He would find a wagon heading back to Hobbiton, and soon he would be back in Bag End where things were safe and comfortable and never changed, and he would never have to deal with strange people from faraway lands again.

He realized he was grumbling to himself, glaring down at the neatly-wrapped paper, and looked up to see a group of unfamiliar dwarves standing in the road in front of him.

Swerving sharply to the right, he ducked into an alley, then cautiously peeked around the corner. They were standing in front of the Prancing Pony, blocking his way to the stables. Frantically, he looked around for an alternate route, then started hurrying down the alley away from them.

He emerged from the alley and found himself face to face with two more dwarves.

They were not Balin or Dwalin or Thorin, but they moved with the same purposeful stride and keen look, their eyes scanning the buildings. Bilbo felt his eyes widen and he whirled to walk away from them, but not before they had caught sight of his expression.

He walked faster as they fell in on either side of him, but with their longer stride and his paper-wrapped burden he couldn't seem to shake them.

"Pardon us," said the one on his right--a young dwarf with blond hair and a braided beard. "My name is Fíli."

"And I am Kíli," said the dwarf on Bilbo's left.

 _"At your service"_ they chorused together, bowing--and Bilbo took the opportunity to increase the distance between them as they did so, hurrying his steps. 

"We were wondering if perhaps you'd recently seen some other dwarves," Fíli said as they effortlessly caught back up to him.

"There would have been three of them," Kíli added.

Bilbo heard himself make a small, alarmed noise without really meaning to.

"The eldest had a long white beard, forked at the bottom."

Bilbo shook his head, resolutely not making eye contact.

"One would be balding, lots of tattoos?"

"Nope," Bilbo said, and kept walking.

"And they'd be with a third dwarf--well, I hope," added Fíli in an undertone. "Younger, dark hair, and very--"

"--Infuriating?" Bilbo said at the same time Fíli finished, "--majestic?" 

Bilbo stopped and glared at him. "I think the word you are looking for is 'annoying'? Or perhaps 'exasperating'?"

The two young dwarves shared a delighted look. "He's met Uncle Thorin!" Kíli exclaimed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sapphire's Sweets](http://mekare.dreamwidth.org/12126.html#cutid1) was drawn by the fantastic Mekare!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is just going to give these two young dwarves a little help, and then it's back to Hobbiton for him. Yes indeed. No adventures here.

"--don't you see, Mr. Boggins, this is our only chance!" Kíli was looking at him with such imploring eyes that Bilbo didn't have the heart to correct him. "They'll notice we're gone soon, this is our only chance to get away and go find Uncle Thorin!"

"So you see, we need you to go to the Prancing Pony and buy--well, whatever we'd need to strike out on our own," Fíli said. He looked at Kíli. "What will we need?"

"Oh, food," Kíli said vaguely. "And I guess...rope?"

Bilbo had never struck off into the wilderness before, but he _had_ gone camping as far away as Tuckborough. "You'll need a tinderbox as well," he said.

"Yes, that!" Fíli seized him by the shoulders. "We can't do it, the inn is full of dwarves."

"I had noticed that," Bilbo said.

"Yes, yes, it's the delegation traveling from Erebor to Ered Luin, we convinced them to let us come along, but we've been asking about Uncle Thorin all the way, and now we've finally found him, and we're only two days behind him, and we're _not_ going to lose him now, are we, Kíli?" Fíli finished in a rush, and Kíli shook his head vigorously. "So we need _you_ to buy us the things we need." Fíli rummaged in a pouch and grabbed Bilbo's hand. Bilbo stared as a cascade of tiny diamonds fell into his palm. "That should cover it, don't you think?"

"I--I should think so!"

"We'll go to the stables and buy ponies and we'll meet you outside the West Gate in an hour." Fíli turned him around and pushed him gently back up the hill. "Go on, that's a good halfling, we're counting on you!"

"Oh, oh!" Kíli cried as Bilbo started to walk away. "And whatever you do, don't tell our mother we're leaving!"

"That's true," Fíli said, "Good thinking, brother. You can't miss her," he said to Bilbo. "She'll be wearing midnight-blue, and her hair is black but her beard is nearly all silver now. It's the stress," he added in an undertone. "It's really better not to talk to her at all, come to think of it."

"Her beard," Bilbo said, blinking. "Right."

Fíli nudged him in the back. "We've got to hurry, they'll notice we're gone soon," he urged. "One hour, the West Gate!" 

"Thank you, thank you so much, Mr. Boggins!" said Kíli, and the two of them ran off toward the stables.

Bilbo looked down at the small fortune glittering in his hand, frowning. Then he headed toward the Prancing Pony.

**: : :**

"--and I'll need a week's worth of rations, and some rope. And I guess three canteens. And two more packs."

"Going camping with friends, are you, Mr. Baggins?" 

Bilbo looked nervously around the common room of the Prancing Pony, filled with dwarves drinking and throwing food. "Yes, that's right. With my cousins from Staddle."

"Good weather for it," said Benjamin Butterbur. "I'll be right back, then." He went to a back room, and Bilbo tried to stand as casually as possible and not make any eye contact.

"You've met my sons, I see."

Bilbo jumped to find a female dwarf in a midnight-blue dress, her silver beard heavy with gemmed jewelry, standing at his shoulder. "Your sons, ma'am? I don't believe I've had the pleasure, though I'm sure they're delightful boys--"

"--They are indeed," the dwarf said. "Brave and good and true, though perhaps just a trifle sheltered and over-trusting." She nodded down at the diamonds in his hand, and Bilbo closed his fingers over them with a guilty start. "A lesser man would be on his way home with a pocketful of treasure, and my sons would be stranded and poorer--if possibly wiser, I suppose. It eases my heart to know that someone responsible, level-headed, and kind will be keeping an eye on them." She smiled, but her eyes were somehow sad. "Thank you so much," she murmured.

"I--well--um--you're welcome," Bilbo finished lamely, unable to tell her that he had no intention of haring off across the countryside with two strange dwarves.

"I shall cover for them and make sure no one tries to fetch them back. May Mahal bless you for your kindness," she said. "And if you happen to see my brother..." Her mouth tightened. "Tell him I believe in him."

**: : :**

Half an hour later, nearly buried under the weight of three packs and a box full of spun-sugar confectionary, Bilbo Baggins staggered toward the West Gate. _No more dwarves!_ he thought angrily to himself. _Hand over the packs, tell them good luck, and get back to the Shire where you belong!_

His heart fell as he rounded the corner of the gate and saw Fíli and Kíli standing with three shaggy ponies.

Their faces lit up when they saw him. "You did it!" Kíli whooped, running up to grab the packs out of his hands. "Let's get out of here before they come after us!"

They swung themselves up into their saddles, then turned around and looked at Bilbo.

"Now, I don't think--I mean, I think it was about time I was getting home, don't you?" stammered Bilbo, looking away from the disappointment on the brothers' faces.

"We were rather hoping you'd come with us," said Fíli. "We'd pay you well, of course."

"Yes, we still haven't had time to even hear how our uncle is doing," Kíli chimed in.

"Or Balin and Dwalin," Fíli added.

"Good old Balin," said Kíli, smiling. "And Mister Dwalin. I've missed them."

"Besides," said Fíli, "You seem to know a lot about this traveling business."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, exactly," said Bilbo. They looked at each other and Bilbo shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I really should get back to the Shire. I mean, I've got the sweets I have to get back," he said, hoisting the box in something like an apologetic shrug. "And my birthday party to prepare for, and I need to pay the grocer, and weed the window boxes, and...you know...stuff."

"Very well," said Fíli, his voice sad. "Good luck to you on your road, then. Come along, Kíli." He clucked to his pony, and they started off down the road.

Bilbo watched them go away from Bree, away from the safe walls he knew. Against his will, he heard again Thorin's gruff and contemptuous voice: _You would not last a day outside your safe little world!_

"Stop! Wait!" he called after Fíli and Kíli, running toward them. They turned, quick smiles on their faces, and let him catch up.

Bilbo stopped to catch his breath. "You're going _south,_ " he explained, wheezing. "Fornost is _north._ "

"Oh," Fíli and Kíli said in unison.

"Good grief," Bilbo muttered to himself, then raised his voice: "I suppose I can travel with you until you catch up with your uncle. But then I'm heading back to the Shire!"

Beaming, Kíli hopped down from his pony to help Bilbo swing into the stirrups of the third pony: the fattest and littlest. "You won't regret this, Mr. Baggins!"

It was lunacy to feel happy that the dwarf had remembered his name correctly. But as Bilbo kicked the pony and it snorted and started to trot north away from Bree, he realized that he was smiling.

**: : :**

He wasn't smiling so much six hours later, when Fíli called a halt for the night and they began to set up camp at the side of the road. "I thought there'd be an inn or something," Bilbo grumbled as they rolled out blankets on the ground. But north of Bree there was very little but scattered farms, and the suspicious farmers peering out at them did not seem likely to offer hospitality.

However, the brothers' spirits were high as they started a small fire (with only a few false starts), tossing a song back and forth between them about a maid with hair like silk. "Even if there were inns, we couldn't stay there," Fíli said, interrupting his song to answer Bilbo. "They'd think to search there."

"We're going to have to be cunning and sneaky to avoid recapture," Kíli nodded, pleased with himself, and broke into a cheerful whistle as he started to whittle a piece of wood.

Bilbo sincerely doubted an entire diplomatic delegation would get sidetracked looking for two runaway pages, or scribes, or whatever they were. He thought about telling them that their mother had blessed the enterprise and would be covering for them, but decided to let them enjoy their guile. He settled down on a rock rather gingerly--he'd never ridden for so long in one day--and brought up the pressing question: "What's for dinner?"

Fíli and Kíli looked blank. "Well...rations, I guess." Kíli pulled a paper-wrapped block from his pack, broke off a corner, and nibbled at it. "I _guess_ that's food," he said, grimacing. He looked at Bilbo. "Don't you have something a little tastier?"

Bilbo involuntarily clutched at his pack. His biscuits and lemon drops, his precious viola tea! There was no possibility these two would appreciate their exquisite flavors. And the spun sugar was for his birthday party. He peeked into the pack, shifting the delicacies safely aside. "Well, I have some herbs and a little fine-milled flour. If we had some rabbit or or fowl, I could probably make some stew."

Kíli leapt to his feet, his face shining. "Then I am your dwarf, Mr. Baggins." He unshouldered his bow and announced, "I shall return shortly."

Bilbo wasn't sure he felt comfortable knowing Kíli was running around with a projectile weapon. "Will he be all right?"

Fíli looked unconcerned as he took a drink from his canteen. "Oh, don't worry about him. He's the best dwarf I know with the bow. Everyone said it was a silly weapon for a dwarf, but we've been hunting around Erebor and he nearly never misses with it."

Sure enough, Kíli returned within an hour with two rabbits. He and Fíli managed to dress them with some involved Díscussion, and soon Bilbo had a small pot of rabbit stew bubbling over the campfire. When Fíli ate a spoonful, his eyes widened. "This is amazing!" He stared down at the spoon. "How did you make something so good?"

"Well, the herbs help a lot," Bilbo said. The stew _was_ quite good, and he took another bite, feeling proud.

"Herbs. You mean those green flecky things?" The brothers poked at their bowls with interest, peppering Bilbo with questions about its preparation in between mouthfuls and ecstatic compliments.

"Stew isn't hard to make," Bilbo pointed out.

Kíli scraped the last remnants from his bowl with meticulous care and licked his spoon. "Will you teach us sometime?"

"Well." Bilbo frowned. "I'm only going to be with you for a few more days, so it's going to have to be soon."

"Oh. I forgot," Kíli said, crestfallen. Then he brightened. "But if we can learn to cook a little, we'll be able to cook for Uncle Thorin when we see him again!"

"That's a great idea!" enthused Fíli. He glanced at Bilbo, who had made an involuntary snorting sound. "What's the matter?"

"No offense, but I can't imagine your uncle overflowing with gratitude for anything."

Fíli frowned as if Bilbo had missed the point. "Well, he's a little rough around the edges--"

"-- _the edges?_ " Bilbo huffed. "Your uncle is without a doubt the most impolite, high-handed, ill-mannered person I've ever met--and I know Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, so that's saying something."

Kíli sat up straight, scowling. "Now see here, Mr. Baggins!" he said sharply, his affable tone gone. "You don't understand Uncle Thorin _at all._ "

"He's right," said Fíli. "Maybe he's not the most affectionate of fellows, but Uncle Thorin has been through a lot, and he's got his reasons for being the way he is, and we won't tolerate people speaking ill of him."

They nodded emphatically in unison.

"Reasons?" Bilbo snorted again. "I'd like to hear _those_."

Fíli and Kíli both leaned forward as if they thought Bilbo would never ask. " _Well,_ " Fíli started, despite Bilbo's stammer that he hadn't meant it _literally_ , " _That_ is a story that begins about two hundred years ago..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns more about Thorin's history and encounters dangers on the road north to Fornost.

...Uncle Thorin's story starts with King Thrór," said Fíli.

"They mentioned him," said Bilbo, remembering the dwarves' toast at the Prancing Pony.

Fíli nodded. "Thrór, son of Dain, son of Nain, King under the Mountain. Ruler of Erebor, under whose reign the Lonely Mountain grew ever greater in wealth and power." The words sounded formal, almost ritualistic.

"But the King became ill," broke in Kíli. "With a sickness of the mind. And a shadow fell across the kingdom."

"This was long before we were born," said Fíli, lapsing back into casual language. "When Uncle Thorin was just a young dwarf. But he decided even then that he was going to find a way to heal the King. So he spent years and years searching the libraries and chronicles of Erebor, teaching himself all sorts of obscure languages so he could read the scrolls and books there."

"Remember how we used to tag along?" Kíli smiled. "He'd spend all day going through some musty books, and he'd say were driving him mad with our chatter, and he'd give us riddles and lore to search for and keep ourselves busy."

"And then we'd bring him dinner and we'd all sit and eat together." The brothers looked at each other and grinned.

"Not to be rude, but he didn't look like much of a scholar," Bilbo said. "He seemed a little more likely to bash my head in than read me poetry."

Kíli looked offended. "Uncle Thorin was good enough to do both," he huffed. "He was one of the greatest fighters of Erebor, but his passion in life was to restore King Thrór to health."

"And that was where things began to go wrong," Fíli said, his face clouding over. "Because his father--"

"--That's our grandfather," said Kíli helpfully.

Fíli nodded. "Our grandfather thought he was wasting his time, 'hiding among books like an'--" he paused and grimaced before finishing the quote, "--'like an elf.'" The brothers sighed in unison. "The closer Uncle Thorin felt he was getting to finding something, the angrier Grandfather became with him. And Uncle Thorin, well--"

"--He, uh...he didn't take the criticism well," said Kíli.

"I'm shocked to hear it," said Bilbo dryly.

"And eventually things got so bad..." Fíli swallowed as if remembering scenes he would rather forget. "Well. In the end, Uncle Thorin was told to leave home and never come back." He sighed, looking into the fire. "Mister Balin and Mister Dwalin, they stood by him and left with him."

"That was ten years ago," said Kíli.

"You haven't seen your uncle for ten years?"

"We've been planning and planning how to get away and go join him," Fíli said. "But this has been our first chance, really."

Bilbo frowned at the flickering flames. "So...your uncle has been looking for something to help the King for ten years?" It was hard to imagine Thorin as a loyal and humble servant of a King, but apparently dwarves valued different things in their retainers. Obviously. 

Fíli nodded. "See, just before he left, Uncle Thorin finally found what he had been looking for. In an old book filled with elvish writing, he found reference to a poem that told of a powerful magical artifact that could heal the King. It was just one line, and a note saying that the whole poem was written down elsewhere. So he's been looking for the poem that will lead him to the item and save King Thrór." He bit his lip. "He hasn't found it yet, though."

"How do you know?"

Fíli looked confused. "If he had found it, he'd be back in Erebor by now, wouldn't he?" he said reasonably. "Nothing in all the world could keep him from helping the King."

There was a sudden long, wavering sound in the distance, and Bilbo jumped to his feet, realizing that it had grown dark while the brothers talked. "What was that?" he said.

Fíli and Kíli looked at each other. "Wolf, probably," said Fíli. His voice was unconcerned, but he put a hand on the hilt of his knife, and Fíli quietly picked up his bow. The ponies were snorting and stamping.

"Wolf?"

"You know--like a big dog, but with a slavering maw and fangs as large as--"

"--I know what a wolf _is_ , thank you very much. It's just--right here? So close?"

"Don't you have wolves in the Shire?" 

"What?" Bilbo stared at him. "No, of course not! The Shire is _safe_ \--I suppose there was the Fell Winter, but that was so long ago, and--"

Another howl, this one much nearer, and Bilbo swallowed an icy lump in his throat. Kíli put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Mr. Baggins, I'm sure that--"

Green eyes glowed just outside the ring of the campfire, and a rattling growl shook the night.

All three of them jumped to their feet, but unlike Bilbo, who was frozen to the spot in terror, Kíli and Fíli swiveled to put Bilbo in between them, their backs to the hobbit and weapons bristling in their hands. Kíli yelled something Bilbo couldn't understand, and there was a _twang_ of a bowstring into the darkness. 

The growl sharpened to a cruel bark and the wolf lunged out of the shadows at them.

"Kíli!" yelled Fíli, but his brother already had a second arrow nocked and the wolf staggered, a feathered arrow sprouting from its throat. With a last vicious lurch it landed at Bilbo's feet, close enough that he could feel its dying breath hot on his toes.

Bilbo Baggins stared at the green eyes glazing over with death and felt nausea rising in his throat. 

Kíli was looking at him, concern on his face, his hand on his shoulder. Bilbo's knees were shaking and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to stay standing. He swallowed hard. "I'm--I think I'm--"

The brush erupted and a second wolf--this one silent as the night--came straight at Kíli.

"No!" Fíli was between them somehow, his knives out, and the wolf crashed into him. There was a short, sharp struggle--snapping jaws and gasping breath--and finally the wolf went limp in a spreading pool of blood.

"Fíli!" Kíli was at his side now. "Brother, are you all right?"

Fíli gave him a weak smile. "Better than the wolf," he said, and started to stand, then clutched at his shoulder, wincing.

Bilbo took an involuntary step toward him, then realized what a mistake he had made. The night swam around him in a buzzing welter of sound, and he sank down into it.

**: : :**

"Mr. Baggins?" He opened his eyes to find Kíli bending over him, his face worried. 

"Fíli..."

"He's all right," Kíli reassured him. "Bit of a graze on his shoulder, nothing to worry overmuch about." A fleeting smile. "Are you feeling better?"

Bilbo sat up gingerly, rubbing at his face. The wolf carcasses were gone, with only a scattering of scarlet smudges on the grass to show that they'd ever been there. Fíli was sitting on his bedroll, sharpening one of his knives with slow, steady strokes, favoring his left arm very slightly. "That shouldn't have happened," Fíli said.

"I should think not," Bilbo said shakily.

"I mean, wolves don't generally attack unprovoked like that," Fíli said. "It's not natural."

Kíli grimaced. "Fornost isn't that natural a place, from what I've heard. Strange influences, echoes of the ancient past."

"You were both so fast," said Bilbo. _So brave._ "I couldn't...even move."

Fíli looked up from his knife. "Well, we said we'd been trained, right? We know how to handle our weapons. We've hunted the hills of Erebor, faced down wolves and wild boars."

"We even took down a mountain cat one time," Kíli said. 

"So we know how to handle ourselves pretty well," said Fíli. "It's just a matter of training."

"We could train you, if you like," Kíli said. "Teach you how to defend yourself a little bit."

Bilbo felt again the wolf's baleful breath on his skin. He shuddered. "That's...a very kind offer," he said. "But I'll be going home soon. I have to get back for my party next week. I don't--I don't belong out here." _You know nothing of adversity, nothing of suffering, and nothing of heroism._ "I don't belong out here," he repeated miserably.

Fíli and Kíli exchanged glances that Bilbo assumed were pitying. "Don't feel bad," Fíli said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You know, the first time Kíli hunted a rogue boar, he fainted? Keeled right over."

" _What?_ " Kíli's voice was outraged. "I did no such thing, and--" He caught Fíli's warning look and broke off. "What I meant was, I wouldn't call it _fainting_ , but it's perfectly normal to lose consciousness in high-stress situations, yes. Of course."

"Thank you both," Bilbo said, his voice small. "I...I believe I'm going to just lie down and try to get some sleep now." He lay down on his bedroll, curled up away from the brothers, and closed his eyes.

But sleep did not come for him that night.

**: : :**

In the gray of morning, they packed up their camp and extinguished the fire. The brothers seemed subdued, and Bilbo did not feel like breaking the silence. He put his pots and pans back in the pack, eyeing the little package of lemon drops with longing. If only he were home, safe under the hill, with nothing more to worry about than paying the grocer! 

"Look." Fíli squatted on the ground in front of him, looking him in the eye. "Kíli and I appreciate you getting us this far, Mr. Baggins. But if you wish to turn around and go back to Bree, we understand."

"No," said Bilbo. "I've come this far, I'll see you the rest of the way." He tried to put conviction in his voice, as if he were doing it for brave reasons, but the fact of the matter was that he wasn't sure he felt able to travel alone right now. Little sounds in the underbrush made him twitch and start his heart pounding, and he found he didn't want to be far from Fíli's knives or Kíli's arrows.

"Once we find Uncle Thorin, I'm sure we'll be able to escort you back to the Shire," Fíli said.

Bilbo nodded, picking up the box of spun sugar animals and tying it to the top of his pack. He attached his daisy-patterned umbrella to the side, leaving it dangling. It was unwieldy, but he felt better keeping everything close, like talismans against darkness and wolves and cowardice.

Soon they were on the road again, traveling north deeper into the lands of the long-abandoned kingdom of Arnor.

By late morning the landscape had started to change, the gentle hills of the Breelands widening into barrens dotted with pine trees. At noon they came across a ruined farmhouse, its roof fallen in and weeds choking its doorway. In the overgrown garden Bilbo found some potato plants, and soon he was showing Fíli and Kíli how to roast potatoes in a cooking fire with a bit of sage. Their ecstatic appreciation lifted his mood somewhat, but overall the land seemed oppressively quiet, brooding over some history ancient beyond Bilbo's imagining.

"I think we should find a place to camp for the night," Fíli said a few hours later, looking around. The sky had grown cloudy, and a mist was starting to gather on the ground, stirred by their ponies' hooves.

"The top of that hill." Kíli pointed to a hill that rose up against the sky, topped with a set of broken pillars like jagged teeth.

The hill appeared to be some old Arnorian watchtower; a mosaic of ruined stone covered the top. Bilbo looked out across the northern landscape and couldn't suppress a gasp. "Impressive," Fíli said at his side, his voice low. 

To the north stretched a wide field dotted with blackened stumps and stone cairns. Through the gathering mists, Bilbo could make out great stone walls in the distance, fallen into ruins, and a hint of a gate flanked with two massive statues. 

"Is that Fornost? Is that where Uncle Thorin was going?" Kíli sounded unsure. "It doesn't look like a very pleasant place at all."

"It's a battlefield," Bilbo said. "They're not known for being pleasant places." He hugged himself, shivering. "A great kingdom fell here." He had read about it in his history books, but seeing it in the gathering gloom, thick with memories of pain and hate...

"Well, from here maybe we can see their party," Kíli said pragmatically, shrugging off the ominous mood. He started to set up camp, whistling, but the cheerful little sound seemed tinny and false in the sorrowful dusk, and he soon fell silent once more.

"It's going to be hard to see anything at all, with this fog," Fíli said. Indeed, the mists had thickened as twilight fell, and the hill they were camped on had become an island above a sea of swirling white that caressed the ruined pillars like ghostly fingers.

Bilbo peeked into his pack, wondering if maybe this was the time to break into his viola tea. It would taste like home, he thought longingly: like safety and comfort and good quiet small things. He sighed, imagining his warm hearth and soft armchair, his history books and quaint maps. How much better to be reading about ancient battlefields than sitting in the middle of them!

"What's that?" Fíli's voice was sharp. Bilbo looked up to see a light flickering down on the northern plains, almost smothered by the mist.

"It looks like a fire," Kíli whispered. They looked at each other in wild surmise. "Do you think it could be--?"

They scrambled to their feet. "Uncle Thorin!" Fíli called through his cupped hands. "Is that you?"

"Mister Balin! Mister Dwalin!" Kíli called after.

"That...doesn't look like a campfire to me," Bilbo said dubiously, but the brothers weren't listening to him.

"This is our chance!" Whooping with anticipation, the brothers ran down the hill and into the mist, calling Thorin's name.

The fog swallowed them up and Bilbo found himself alone on the hill.

"Oh dear," he said, looking around. "Oh. Oh dear." The brothers' voices were growing fainter. Bilbo heard himself make a small squeaking sound of mingled exasperation and fear. His heart pounding, he grabbed his pack and hurried after them onto the downs.

The swirling fog closed around him like a curtain. The dwarves' voices seemed to come from everywhere at once, so Bilbo fixed his eyes on the flickering light (it was greenish-white, not a healthy yellow at all) and kept moving toward that. 

Suddenly the brothers' voices rose into sounds of alarm, cries in that unknown language. Bilbo heard a clash of metal nearby, and then silence.

His knees trembling, his breath short, he ran toward the sounds before he could think better of it.

Something turned under his bare foot, and he looked down to see a bleached skull grinning up at him. With a yelp of horror he staggered away from the grisly sight--and nearly tripped over a body.

Looking down, he saw Fíli lying on the blighted grass, his face pale and his eyes closed. Next to him lay Kíli, collapsed onto the ground. "Fi--Ki--" Bilbo's voice faltered into the dreadful fog.

He looked up once more to see a being that seemed made from the fog itself standing there, its eyes like baleful stars and a translucent diadem on its brow. From the fog behind it came a rattling noise, and Bilbo gaped in horror as skeletons walked from the mists, clad in tatters and scraps of armor, reaching out with pale bony hands. 

"Get--get away from them!" Bilbo yelled, his voice high and panicked as he stood between the dwarves' bodies, trying to shield them. His mind reeling, he groped wildly behind him for something--anything!--he could use as a weapon.

His hand came back with his mother's daisy-print umbrella in it. 

"Don't you dare touch them!" he cried, brandishing the umbrella at the skeletal soldiers like a saber. "Stay back!"

The skeletons tilted their ivory heads to the side. They seemed less than impressed. The spectral figure gestured, and they stepped forward in unison, armor chiming and bones clacking, and Bilbo prepared himself to be ripped to pieces by skeletons.

And then the mists behind them parted and Thorin emerged from the fog.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing a barrow-wraith, Thorin and his party take refuge in the warded library of Fornost.

Bilbo Baggins stared as Thorin stepped from the fog, his drawn sword gleaming dully in the flickering witchlight. "Help!" he called--or tried to, though it came out as a wordless squeak of entreaty.

Thorin's eyes went wide for a moment as he took in the scene before him. Then he was charging forward toward the skeletal army. "Balin! Dwalin! To me!" he cried in a great voice as he swept his sword around to catch the nearest skeleton in the neck.

A shower of bones pelted Bilbo, and he threw up a hand to try and deflect the flying chips. There was a sharp tug on his umbrella, and he realized one of the skeletons had grabbed the end of it. "Let go! Let go!" he shrieked, trying to yank it back. It popped open and the skeleton gave a confused rattle as it disappeared behind a screen of daisies.

Bilbo could hear voices bellowing: _"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!"_ Another hail of bone chips filled the air, pattering on the open umbrella, and Bilbo was vaguely aware that two more dwarves had joined the fray.

The crowned spectral figure, which had been merely standing and watching, began to move forward, one hand outstretched. 

"Retreat!" cried Thorin. "We cannot fight it!" Bilbo gasped as strong arms seized him, driving the air from his lungs and ripping the umbrella handle from his hands. "Retreat to the city!" With a jolt, Thorin slung Bilbo over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and began to run.

Looking backwards, dazed and breathless, Bilbo saw Balin and Dwalin running after them, bearing the bodies of Fíli and Kíli. Behind them he could see the skeletons shambling forward in pursuit--all but one, which was holding Bilbo's daisy-patterned umbrella, gazing up at it in puzzlement until it was lost to view in the mists.

**: : :**

"The library is to the west!" Thorin's voice was hoarse but he seemed unwinded by the run to the city gates, even carrying Bilbo over his shoulder the whole way. "We must reach it!" They charged through the city gates, under the watchful eyes of two mutilated statues, and kept running west.

Bilbo was so shaken and jarred that all of his energy was taken up in trying to cling to consciousness as he struggled to process what he had just experienced. Undead armies! Some kind of ghost! It was all insane, and nothing a Baggins of Bag End should ever be involved with, he thought bitterly as he was carried deeper into the dead city of Fornost.

Thorin stopped with a jolt. Balin and Dwalin were right behind him, and Bilbo glimpsed their drawn, fierce faces as they carried their limp burdens. A skeleton reached out and seized Balin's scarlet hood, and Balin whirled to slice at it with his axe. "Hurry, lad, or we're all dead!" cried Dwalin, and Bilbo heard Thorin growl something. 

Stone grated on stone, and then they were through some door and into darkness, total and enveloping. Bilbo found himself dumped without ceremony onto cold flagstones. As he scrabbled to his feet, a torch flamed into guttering light. Thorin jammed it into a holder on the wall, then turned to stare around the room.

It was large, nearly a hall, with a stone table in the middle littered with maps and scrolls. Thorin swept the paper onto the floor. "Here," he said, and Balin and Dwalin stepped forward to lay Fíli and Kíli down on the stone.

The brothers' faces were pale and drawn, their eyes closed. "Are--are they--" Bilbo heard his own voice waver in the silence, but the dwarves ignored him. 

Balin leaned over Fíli. "He breathes still," he murmured, and Bilbo saw Thorin's shoulders relax the tiniest fraction. "But they are gravely injured--not in body, but in spirit."

Thorin rounded on Bilbo, his eyes blazing. " _You,_ " he growled. "In Mahal's name, what are you doing here with my nephews?"

"They--I met them in Bree and they--said they needed a guide, they were looking for--"

"--you imbecile!" Thorin's hands were clenched into fists. "I would have expected you to have enough sense to not drag _children_ into the haunted wilds of Arnor. You could have gotten them _killed--!_ " His voice broke off and he turned away from Bilbo to stare at his nephews, silent and wan on the stone slab. In a choked voice, he said something Bilbo couldn't understand, something that sounded halfway between a curse and a sob. "Care for them, Balin--as clearly I cannot," he snarled, and walked away into the darkness of the library.

Balin sighed, still holding on to Kíli's wrist. "He means, 'I'm very worried about my nephews,' lad," he said to Bilbo's stricken face.

"He also means, 'Thank you for trying to protect them,'" Dwalin added.

"Well, thank you for the translation," Bilbo stammered, "But he could find a rather better way of expressing it than yelling."

"You would think so," Balin mused, looking down at his charge. He brushed the hair from Kíli's forehead, then lay his hand across it, frowning. Kíli's blue-tinged lips were moving as if he were speaking in his sleep, his eyes flickering behind his eyelids. "Kíli. Laddie," murmured Balin. "Come back to us."

Kíli sucked in a breath and sat up with a cry, his eyes wild and staring at some vision beyond the sight of his companions. Fíli whimpered at the sound, shuddering, his eyes half-open. But neither responded to Balin and Dwalin's voices: they sat and shivered, lost in some phantom world.

"They've suffered a terrible shock," Balin murmured.

"Shock? My grandmother always used to say that something sweet was a good remedy for shock," Bilbo said. "Wait--hold up a moment--"

He grabbed the little box from atop his pack and ripped the paper wrapping from it. Inside were his spun-sugar animals, most of them in fragments now. He pulled out two of the whole ones: a lion and an olifaunt. Hopping onto a chair, he held the olifaunt out to Kíli. "Here, Kíli. Eat this." When Kíli didn't respond, he pressed it into his hands and lifted them to his mouth. "Just a bite. You'll feel better, I promise."

When the sugared animal touched his lips, Kíli drew back, staring at it in something like horror. Bilbo pushed it between his slack lips, and Kíli bit without seeming to realize he did so. His throat worked as he swallowed. His eyes almost focused on the sweet, and he took another careful bite, his fingers curling around it. 

"That's good," said Bilbo soothingly. "Eat it up, we'll get you some more. There's plenty, don't worry. Just eat." Beside him, Balin was coaxing Fíli into eating his sugar lion; Dwalin handed them both more fragments of sugar when they were finished, which the brothers ate mechanically. Bilbo was relieved to see that some color was creeping back into their cheeks, the deathly pallor giving way to a more natural hue. Finally, Kíli's eyes fluttered and closed; he curled up on the table still clutching a bit of spun sugar in one sticky hand, his breathing steady once more. Fíli joined him soon after, his arm thrown over his brother as if to protect him.

Balin checked their pulses with gentle hands, touched their foreheads. "I believe they may be out of danger," he said, and Bilbo sagged with relief. For the first time, he lifted his eyes from the quiet forms on the stone table to take in the rest of the room. It was lined with bookshelves that stretched off into the shadows, leather spines shining with gilt ink and tightly-wound scrolls sealed with intricately-stamped wax. 

He started when he realized Thorin was standing in one of the doorways, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on his nephews. Bilbo had no idea how long he'd been there. "The library is vast," Thorin said. "There are two other exits, each warded against the undead like this one, so we are safe as long as we stay here."

"But--but we can't stay here forever," quavered Bilbo.

"We will stay here until I find the answers I seek," said Thorin. "And then--well, we shall cut that gem after we unearth it." He hadn't looked away from Fíli and Kíli, nor had he left the doorway.

"Thorin, don't hover over there," snapped Balin. 

"I don't wish to wake them."

"A fine impulse, lad, but being woken by their uncle is perhaps the best medicine for them."

"They ran away from their group to find you," Bilbo said. "There was a delegation of dwarves going to Ered Luin." Thorin took a few almost hesitant steps into the hall, then settled on a stool at the end of the table, still fairly far from Fíli and Kíli's sleeping forms. "Oh, I met your sister."

Thorin looked startled. "You met Dís?"

"Yes, she seemed to approve of the boys going to find you. She said to tell you that she believed in you."

Thorin blinked and opened his mouth, then closed it again. "That is...a comfort," he said.

"I told you she would never lose faith in you," rumbled Dwalin.

"It has been a long time," Thorin murmured. "People change."

Dwalin shook his head. "Not Dís."

Fíli murmured something and rubbed at his face, and Thorin was suddenly on his feet once more. Fíli threw his hand back over his brother and it landed on his face, and Kíli made a sleepy protest and threw it off, then scrubbed at his own eyes and blinked up at Bilbo.

"I had the strangest dream," he said, yawning. "There was a ghost, and it touched me and I got so cold, and then it became an olifaunt and...I ate it?" He frowned, puzzled. "It was delicious."

Then his eyes went past Bilbo to see Balin and Dwalin standing behind him, and he sat up with a start. 

"Balin! Dwalin!" His voice was a yelp of delighted surprise. "Fíli! We found them!"

"I think it's more that we found you, lad," said Balin as Fíli sat up, blinking.

"Is--is Uncle Thorin--" Kíli swiveled until he saw Thorin standing at the end of the table, and his face lit up with joy.

"By Durin's beard," snarled Thorin, "I am _disappointed_ in you both. Running away from your duties at home, abandoning your people--" He pointed at Bilbo, apparently unaware that his hand was shaking slightly. "--and choosing, of all the peoples of Middle Earth, the most sheltered and least qualified one to be your guide--such an error in judgment is unworthy of--"

His voice cut off as Kíli and Fíli leapt forward in unison to throw their arms around him; after a moment his closed around them as well.

"But Mr. Baggins isn't unqualified," Kíli said eventually, his voice a bit rough and his face still hidden in Thorin's vast fur collar. "He can cook the best rabbit stew, and he tells funny stories that make us laugh, and sings silly songs--"

Thorin shot Bilbo a look over the top of Kíli's head, and Bilbo shrugged, feeling awkward.

"Then he would make a fine babysitter, but not a--"

"--And we're not _babies_ , Uncle Thorin," protested Fíli, pulling back and squaring his shoulders. "We're both adults now, we've gone through the _givesh-tharakh_ , we're not children! And it was important we find you--"

"--the King?" Thorin's hands tightened on their shoulders. "Is he--"

"--King Thrór lives still," Fíli said, his voice going formal for a moment. "But he emerges rarely from his quarters, and speaks to none but the Prince-Regent."

Thorin's mouth tightened, and his eyes met Balin and Dwalin's with a grim intensity. "And what of my siblings?"

"Mother is...getting by," Kíli said, his voice subdued.

"She speaks out when she sees things that need to be said," Fíli said.

"That doesn't always sit well with...with Regent Thráin," Kíli added.

"And Uncle Frerin is...much as he always is," Fíli said.

Another exchange of glances around the room; Bilbo was definitely getting the uncomfortable feeling that a great deal was remaining unsaid. It seemed Thorin had managed to make enemies of both his own father and of this Regent Thráin fellow. No wonder he hadn't gone home for a decade.

"I gather my father is in good health," Thorin said. 

"He is...well in body," Fíli said.

Thorin took a deep breath; exhaled it slowly. "Time is short," he murmured, more to himself than anyone in the room. "Balin. Dwalin. I'll need your help. The north wing of the library seems to be mainly books in Westron. I need you to go through them and sort out any that seem to be about curses or healing artifacts. Look for certain words: dragons, gold, fever, shadows, and of course any mention of Durin's Scourge. If you find books you can't read, put them aside and I'll go through them later."

"What can we do, Uncle Thorin?"

"Yes, we're here to help!"

Thorin looked at his nephews, then roughly rumpled their hair. "There's an army of undead waiting for us outside this library," he said. "I suggest you teach Mr. Baggins how to hold a knife and perhaps even take a stab at a foe." He looked at Bilbo and the corner of his mouth tilted wryly. "He has now attacked two different enemies with his umbrella--a skeleton and, earlier, myself--and has proven remarkably ineffective at stopping anyone. We shall see if the fault is in his choice of weapons or his spirit."

He clapped them on the shoulders, then whirled, beckoning to Balin and Dwalin. "To work!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Confused Skeleton with Umbrella](http://mekare.dreamwidth.org/5906.html#cutid1) by Mekare. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped in the Library of Fornost, Thorin and his company search for clues and Thorin and Bilbo have some conversations with unfortunate results.

"No, you must grip the knife like this, Mr. Baggins," said Fíli, adjusting Bilbo's hand.

"And widen your stance more," added Kíli. "Imagine I'm a skeleton warrior about to charge you, like this-- _argh!"_

He jumped at Bilbo without warning and Bilbo squeaked and dropped the knife. The brothers shared a glance.

"Needs work," said Fíli.

"But you're making progress!" Kíli said encouragingly, clapping him on the back.

"We've been practicing for hours now," Bilbo pointed out. "Can't we take a break and get some food?"

The brothers brightened. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Mr. Baggins," said Kíli.

"And that's another thing," Bilbo said as Fíli pulled a block of rations out of his pack. "You don't have to call me 'Mr. Baggins' all the time. If we're going to be fighting our way out of Fornost through an undead army--" His voice was steady; the idea was so mad that it hardly registered, "--you can call me by my first name."

"I suppose formality can be a liability on the battlefield," agreed Fíli, unwrapping the rations. 

"Yes, you wouldn't want to be yelling something like, 'Look out behind you, Mr. Baggins!' all the time," Kíli said.

"'Mr. Baggins! That skeleton is about to eviscerate you!'"

"'You might want to duck to avoid a decapitating blow, Mr. Baggins!'"

"'Mr. Baggins, I recommend you--'"

"--Yes, yes," said Bilbo hastily. "I get the general idea, there's no reason to dwell on it, um, quite so much. So, yes, I just mean you can use my first name, I don't mind."

There was a short silence as they nibbled on their rations. Fíli and Kíli looked at each other. "Mr. Baggins, the fact of the matter is--"

Bilbo held up a finger to interrupt Fíli. "--Didn't we just agree? First names."

"Yes, well," said Kíli, looking down at his food, "The truth is, that we, um..."

"...we don't actually remember your first name," finished Fíli.

"Though I'm fairly certain it started with a B!" Kíli said cheerfully.

Bilbo looked at their crestfallen faces. "It's--it's Bilbo," he said, torn between exasperation and laughter.

"Bilbo, yes! Got it!" they cried.

The rations finished, Bilbo picked up the little box that had once held his spun sugar animals and shook it gently. It rattled slightly. "I think there may still be some dessert," he said, opening it and fishing out a few fragments.

The brothers looked guilty. "We feel so badly that you gave up your birthday party sweets to help us," said Kíli. 

Bilbo shrugged, looking at the shards of sugar in the box. "It seems pretty unlikely I'm going to get home in time for my birthday now," he said. "And it would be a shame not to eat this. Especially if we're going to be eviscerated by skeletons," he added, handing bits to the brothers. As they ate, Bilbo patted his pack to reassure himself: he still had his lemon drops, after all, and his butterscotch biscuits, and the viola tea. Things weren't _so_ grave. If they managed to get away from Fornost in one piece, he might even still make it home for his birthday after all.

**: : :**

Fíli and Kíli were sparring in the entrance hall when Balin and Dwalin came in through the north archway, their arms loaded with books. "Oof," grumbled Dwalin, dropping them onto the table. Dust rose up from them in a cloud. He beckoned to Bilbo. "Lad, go find Thorin and tell him we've got some books written in one of them elvish languages he needs to look at."

"We'll go!" chorused Kíli and Fíli, but Dwalin shook his head. 

"You'll get distracted and lost and I won't see you for hours. I'm sending the halfling."

"It would be my pleasure, I'm sure," groused Bilbo as he headed into the south wing, "Not that anyone actually _asked_ , just told me to hop to it. I'm not your manservant, you know!" he said after checking to make sure he was well out of Dwalin's range of hearing.

The Great Library of Fornost was bewildering, its stone halls stretching out in every direction. A complicated system of mirrors and tiny warded windows cast pale, diffuse light over the rooms, but it was easy to get turned around in the endless maze of book-lined walls. Bilbo walked south, gaping at the marble statues, sometimes stopping to admire an archaic map on the wall, until he spotted yellow torchlight rather than the dim glow of the library's lighting. Quietly, daunted by the brooding hush of the ancient halls, he sidled into the room.

Thorin was sitting at a table in the center of the room, frowning down at a scroll unrolled in front of him. He was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses low on his nose, peering through them at the words. He glanced up, startled, as Bilbo cleared his throat, then pulled the glasses off and shoved them roughly in his breast pocket. 

"Sometimes the cursed print is small," he huffed. 

"Well, of course," said Bilbo. "Many scholars use glasses to--"

"--Don't tell Dwalin," said Thorin.

"Um, right. He asked me--well, told me--to come find you," Bilbo said. "Said he had some elvish materials." 

Thorin rubbed at his eyes as if they pained him. "I shall be there in a moment. Just let me finish this scroll."

"Have you found anything yet?"

"No."

The curt reply hung in the air; Bilbo waited until Thorin rolled up the scroll with a sigh to speak again. "So, what exactly are you looking for?"

"It is a dwarvish matter, and no concern to a halfling."

"You never know. Maybe I could help."

"I doubt it." 

Bilbo felt his teeth grind together a bit. He tried again: "You told Balin and Dwalin you're looking for something about gold?"

Thorin picked up a book from the table. "Let's return," he said.

His strides carried him well ahead of Bilbo, who had to hurry to keep up with him. "You know, your approach is not the most productive," Bilbo pointed out to his back. "You're not going to get far in this quest if you keep shutting people out who might help you. With an attitude like that, no wonder you haven't made any progress in ten years."

"I have made _plenty_ of progress in ten years!" Thorin roared back over his shoulder, his boots loud on the stone floor. "I have scoured ancient libraries, I have fought the goblin armies of Gundabad to search the dwarvish chronicles hidden deep in that holy mountain, I have hunted wargs across the plains of Angmar in search of clues--I have seen and done more than you can possibly comprehend for my King, hobbit!"

"And what progress have you made, huh? For all your scouring and slaying and hunting, what do you know now that you didn't know before?"

Thorin burst into the entrance hall, growling something under his breath, and the other dwarves looked up in surprise. He rounded on Bilbo: "When I left Erebor, I had only a phrase and a reference. A book, hundreds of years old, referred to a poem of healing by the elf-poet Elloth, specifically to a passage of interest to dwarves that started, _'When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn.'"_ He took a deep breath, his eyes snapping. "That was all I had."

Bilbo gaped at him. "That was all--you had a one-line reference to an old poem? _That_ was what you had to start with?"

Thorin glared at him. "Thus I have searched Middle Earth, its cities and its catacombs, ever since. In the ruins of Echad Dúnann, in what was once called Hollin, I found the full first verse. And deep under Mount Gundabad, I found what appeared to be the last verse, and a note saying that a copy of the complete poem was in the keeping of the loremasters of Arnor. And that is why I am here, in the capital of that ancient empire."

"Uncle Thorin! You found more of the verse?" 

"You didn't tell us that!"

Thorin looked from Bilbo to Fíli and Kíli, staring at him in eager anticipation. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well--they were in Sindarin, so it took me a while to puzzle them out."

The brothers nodded and waited. 

"Aren't you going to tell us what they said?" Fíli said eventually.

"You might as well, lad," said Balin. "If something happens to us, they're going to be the ones to carry on your quest."

Thorin looked slightly dubious at the idea of Kíli and Fíli continuing his mission, but he said, "Very well, then. The first verse, translated from Sindarin into Westron, goes like this." He closed his eyes and nodded slightly, then recited in a clear, singsong bass:

_When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn_  
And shadows form within the gilded heart  
Then shall the fevered mind no longer burn  
And Durin's Scourge shall finally depart. 

Fíli and Kíli nodded. "I see," said Fíli.

"Of course," said Kíli.

They kept nodding, looking thoughtful.

”What does it mean?" asked Bilbo.

"No idea," the brothers said in unison. 

Fíli grimaced. "What _does_ it mean, Uncle Thorin?"

"I'm...not sure," Thorin admitted. "'Durin's Scourge' is clearly the name of the curse, the--" he paused and looked quickly at Bilbo, then continued, "--the dragon-sickness. The mind-fever is an effect of the illness."

"But the first two lines?" Bilbo looked from face to face. "Golden thoughts turning to darkness? A shadowed heart?"

"It sounds kind of like dying," said Kíli.

Thorin looked exasperated. "Yes, the poem is saying that dying will cure the dragon-sickness, that seems very likely."

"You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?" Kíli asked nervously.

"Yes."

Balin cut into the conversation: "Thorin thinks it possible the first two lines refer to an item made of gold, something old that has been allowed to tarnish."

"Gold doesn't tarnish," said Bilbo.

"It can when it is part of an alloy," said Thorin, with an annoyed look: _Do not presume to lecture dwarves about the properties of metals!_

"And you said you found a last verse under Mount Gundabad?" said Fíli.

Thorin shrugged. "It was less useful; just a summary." He cleared his throat and recited once more:

_"And when at last you see your treasure true,_  
If sacrifice and love can fill your soul,  
The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you  
And clarity of vision make you whole." 

"That's pretty," said Bilbo.

"And meaningless," said Thorin. 

"How can you be sure?"

"If love could save someone with dragon-sickness," Thorin said, "Then my King--" He broke off, glowering at Bilbo. "It's just poetry."

"So you're here to look for more fragments of the poem," said Bilbo. Thorin nodded. "That's how far you've gotten in ten years."

"I will search for twenty years--for forty--for my entire life if it takes that long to find the treasure that will defeat the dragon-sickness."

"That's..." _Obsessively single-minded_ "...very devoted of you," said Bilbo.

Thorin frowned as if he could hear Bilbo's unspoken thoughts. "I did not ask you to join us, Mr. Baggins, and it is not your place to question me."

"I didn't ask to join you either!" said Bilbo. "Believe me, I'd much rather be making party preparations at home than besieged by skeletons in a ruined library. I'd give anything to be in my cozy armchair, in front of my nice little fireplace, with a nice steaming cup of tea in my hand--" The vision of his little hobbit-hole rose up in his mind's eye, and he found himself swallowing hard, the room swimming. He rubbed at his eyes fiercely. "I wish I'd never run into any of you."

Pushing past a stricken-looking Fíli and Kíli, he hurried from the great hall, looking for a place to be alone with his misery.

**: : :**

_"Please,_ Uncle Thorin,"said Fíli.

"It's all our fault that he's here, and we feel really badly, so won't you please just tell him you're sorry?" pleaded Kíli.

"But I'm not," said Thorin, finishing his rations.

Fíli grimaced. "Well, you don't have to _be_ sorry, but the little guy is all alone and kind of scared--"

"--and really not much of a fighter--" Kíli added.

"--so couldn't you just _say_ you were sorry? To maybe make him feel better?"

"I don't have time for this nonsense." Thorin stood up. Fíli and Kíli looked up at him, their eyes imploring. "Oh, by Durin's beard--all right, I shall have a talk with the hobbit. But I do not promise I shall apologize to him."

They threw their arms around him--had they been this prone to hugging before he left?--and thanked him profusely, and Thorin started off in search of the halfling.

As he wandered the dimly-lit corridors, he gritted his teeth and tried to resign himself to coddling the halfling's hurt feelings. Mr. Baggins was far from home, he reminded himself ( _not as far as I am!_ ) and not prepared for such dangers and perils. He had come along to try and help Thorin's nephews, from the goodness of his heart. Thorin's steps slowed as he tried to imagine all this from the hobbit's point of view: offering to do a good turn to two well-intentioned dwarflings, then finding yourself in a haunted city, under attack by creatures beyond your ken, surrounded by strangers who had a tendency (Thorin forced himself to be honest) to bark at you and refuse to explain themselves.

He remembered the moment on the downs when he had seen the halfling standing over his nephews' fallen bodies, brandishing his ridiculous umbrella as though he would die before letting the skeletons touch them. There was courage there, under the silly purple ( _plum-colored!_ ) braces.

"I owe you an explanation," he said without preamble when he finally found Bilbo Baggins sitting and poring over a book of old maps.

Bilbo looked up in surprise. His eyes were slightly reddened, but he seemed to have composed himself. "You do?"

Thorin cleared his throat and looked down at a scroll, his eyes following the intricate lines of the wax seal on it. "Fíli and Kíli have told you what I am searching for?"

"An item of some sort. A treasure that will heal the King of Erebor from some illness of the mind."

"They are correct, but there is more that they do not know. That I have not told them." He took a deep breath. "King Thrór suffers from what we call the dragon-sickness. It is an ancient curse upon our race. The victim becomes...obsessed with gold and treasure. The mind wanders in darkness, dwelling only on things rather than people." He reached out and touched the seal, feeling the wax cool and heavy under his fingers. "As a young dwarf, the King trusted me to care for him when he was ill. So I saw him decline, saw his mind fragment and shatter. I kept it secret for a very long time."

"That must have been hard," Bilbo said, his voice low.

"I swore I would find the means to make him whole again," Thorin said. "I devoted my life to searching for the answer. And in my studies, I learned that..." He swallowed. He had never said this out loud, although he was certain Balin and Dwalin knew it. "...I learned that the curse is in the blood of some families, running always under the surface, a blight and a threat. It was when I saw the signs of it in--" He fell back on the safety of formal titles, "--in Prince-Regent Thráin that I realized how true the old writings were. And how deep the sickness runs in the Line of Durin, the rulers of Erebor." The glint of wildness in his father's eyes, echoing the madness in his grandfather's. A doom beyond bearing. "As long as there is no cure, the dragon-sickness will forever haunt the Kings of Erebor." He turned to look at Bilbo. "I am aware that I can appear...overly focused. That I seem to be throwing my life away in a vain search for a lost hope. But I _must_ find it. The fate of the Line of Durin depends on it."

He took a long, careful breath, suddenly aware that he wasn't used to talking so much in one stretch. Balin and Dwalin didn't need speeches from him, they understood him. 

Thorin wasn't sure why it was important this hobbit understand him. It probably wasn't. But he found himself waiting to hear Bilbo's response.

Bilbo was frowning down at the map on the desk. He tilted his head to the side, then said: 

"Well, shouldn't Erebor have a different ruling family, then?"

**: : :**

Thorin blinked at him, and Bilbo continued:

"I mean, it doesn't seem a very good idea to have a kingdom ruled by a family with hereditary insanity, does it? Kind of a disaster waiting to happen, after all."

Thorin had gone very still, and it made Bilbo feel somewhat uneasy. 

"Don't get me wrong, obviously this King Thrór inspires a great deal of devotion, I'm sure he's a great king," he went on hurriedly. "But if his children are already are showing the signs of it--well, it just seems to me that it would be best for Erebor if a different family was in charge, don't you think?"

"So you--a hobbit from the Shire-- _you_ have decided that the Line of Durin is unfit to rule Erebor?" Thorin's voice was quiet, yet somehow Bilbo felt trepidation prickle his skin. 

"Well, that's a strong word, but...I mean, have you considered elections? They work well in the Shire. That way you dwarves could pick someone intelligent and brave and devoted to Erebor's well-being, and not risk having a ruler you can't get rid of who's...you know...not all there." He smiled nervously at Thorin, who was staring at him. "And then _you'd_ be free to live your life as you chose, not haring around Middle Earth looking for a remedy that might not even exist! You know, if Erebor had elections they could do worse than choose--hey!"

Bilbo broke off with a yelp as Thorin reached out and grabbed him by the collar and seat of his pants and frog-marched him down the corridor to the main hall, ignoring his heated protests. Shoving him into the room so he staggered and sprawled on the stone floor, Thorin pointed at him while the other dwarves stared.

"Keep him out of my sight," Thorin said, his voice flat and cold, "Or I shall throw him to the skeletons myself."

He turned his back and started to stride away down the corridor.

"In Mahal's name, laddie, what did you say to him?" Balin exclaimed. 

"I didn't--I didn't say anything that--he's crazy! _You're crazy!_ " Bilbo yelled after Thorin's retreating back. The dwarf's shoulders tensed as if Bilbo's voice was a blow, but he didn't turn around and soon disappeared in the darkness of the library.

"That's not like him at all," Balin said, sharing a look with Dwalin. "All right," he amended at Dwalin's look, "That's extreme for him."

"I was _trying_ to give him a compliment, and he just grabbed me and--" Bilbo broke off, dusting off his clothes angrily. "You know what, never mind, I don't want to talk about it." He squared his shoulders and looked at Kíli and Fíli. "Let's get back to training," he said.

Kíli's face was wrinkled with dismay; he sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Bilbo said firmly. "I'm absolutely sure."

And so he parried and sliced and feinted until his arms were exhausted and his hair soaked with sweat, until Kíli and Fíli finally told him he had to stop and get some sleep, until he was too tired to think about how wretched he felt with Thorin angry at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baggvinshield made a beautiful [manip of the riddle-poem!](http://baggvinshield.tumblr.com/post/109980818523/inspired-by-clarity-of-vision-by-missmithen-for)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finds a slim lead, and the party must fight their way out of Fornost.

"We only have three days' worth of rations left," Balin said. 

"We'd have enough for more if we hadn't had three extra guests show up," Thorin said shortly, glaring down at the book he was reading.

"I've got some biscuits and...um, some lemon drops," said Bilbo.

Thorin ground his teeth and ignored the hobbit. The last two days had been difficult ones, with Thorin and Bilbo avoiding each other as much as possible. The hobbit spent most of his time training with the knife, while Thorin continued to race through books. Time was running out, in so many ways. If Thráin was already showing signs of the dragon-sickness--

Thorin thought of Erebor in the grip of his mad father. Dís was apparently in Ered Luin and would be for months. For all he knew, their father had sent her there to get rid of her. And Frerin--Thorin loved his younger brother, but he had never had the spine to defy their father.

Time was running out.

"Then there's the fact that we're all pretty sick of being cooped up in this library," Dwalin pointed out. "Getting on each others' nerves, everyone yelling and barking."

"I'd think you must be used to it," Bilbo said. He bit his lip. "Spending time in libraries, I mean."

"Usually Thorin disappears into a library and we disappear into the nearest tavern," Dwalin said cheerfully. "They're not generally under siege by skeletons."

"We have to leave before we run out of food, Thorin," Balin said. 

Thorin ignored him and rubbed his eyes. He wished he could use his glasses, but with the other dwarves right there, it was out of the question. He squinted at the text. "We stay until we find answers," he said.

Bilbo made an annoyed sound. Thorin ignored that too. 

**: : :**

Bilbo was sparring with a grinning Fíli when they heard Thorin's voice raised in a roar: "Useless! This is useless!"

Fíli dropped his knife and bolted toward the voice; Bilbo followed more slowly.

Balin, Dwalin, and Kíli were already in the room. "At least you found more of the verse. That's good, right?" said Kíli hopefully.

"What does it say?" said Balin.

Thorin was glaring at the crumbling scrap of parchment in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was shaking with fury:

"It starts clearly enough, with 'To save the soul--' or maybe mind '--from the dragon's bane--' and there's an adjective that means 'terrible' there as well. But after that it's just--" he waved a hand angrily. "The second line is about love and idleness, or resting in love? And then a passage comparing a heart at ease to a pretty flower?"

He set the scrap down on the table with a deliberate care which hinted at a desire to tear it to shreds. "Sentimental elvish nonsense does not help me find an answer." His fists clenched. "Could no one simply _clearly explain where this artifact is and what it looks like?_ "

"What's that note at the bottom?" Bilbo asked, forgetting for a moment that he was angry at Thorin and leaning forward to peer at it.

The rage had drained out of Thorin, leaving him looking weary. He sat down, his shoulders slumping. "It says that when they moved the capital from Annúminas to Fornost about two thousand years ago, they left a copy of the complete poem in the old archives there."

"So there's an even older library out there?" Kíli shook his head in amazement. He looked at the other dwarves. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's pack up and get going!"

"If we emerge from Fornost alive, _you_ will be returning to Erebor," said Thorin.

"No," said Fíli.

"Did that sound like I was making a _suggestion_?" said Thorin.

Fíli looked nervous, but he shook his head. "Kíli and I are staying with you, Uncle Thorin. No matter what."

"Thorin," said Balin, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Considering the situation in Erebor, it might be best...well..."

"He's trying to say the boys might be safer with us than with Prince-Regent Thráin," said Dwalin.

Thorin winced as though Dwalin had struck him, but said nothing.

"And it's best if we don't split up," Fíli added. "Strength in numbers, right?"

Bilbo swallowed. "What about me?" At the sound of his small voice, the dwarves turned to look at him as if they had forgotten him entirely. "How am I getting home?"

Thorin worried his lip, glaring at Bilbo. Then he grabbed a map from his pack and spread it out on the table.

"We leave Fornost in the middle of the day, when the sunlight is brightest and the undead will be at their weakest. We go at top speed through the Evendim Pass--" He traced a path west with a broad finger marked with tiny paper cuts, "--to Annúminas. From there it's a fairly safe route south along the Baranduin to the Shire. We shall find you an escort in one of the settlements on the banks of the Evendim to see you home." His finger stabbed the Shire. "Is that satisfactory to you, Mr. Baggins?"

He lifted a sardonically polite eyebrow, and Bilbo bit back an angry reply. "Quite. Thank you," he snapped.

Thorin bowed. "You are most welcome." He straightened and looked at Bilbo. "Do try to keep up. It would be a shame if we had to abandon you to the undead hordes."

"Uncle doesn't mean that," Kíli said as Thorin swept from the room, then shot a worried glance at Fíli, who shrugged. 

"Well, I have no intention of being left behind," huffed Bilbo, and went to prepare his pack.

**: : :**

" _Idle love in sweet repose_ ," Thorin growled as he put the last of his things in his pack. "I traveled the breadth of Middle Earth to be told that a healthy mind is like a pretty flower." Maybe the halfling was right: maybe this was all a waste of time. Sighing, he pulled Deathless from its scabbard and sighted down the blade. "More work for you soon," he murmured.

"You often talk to your sword?"

Thorin managed to keep from jumping. "It is not a good idea to sneak up on an armed dwarf," he said without turning to look at Bilbo.

"I wasn't _sneaking_ ," Bilbo said indignantly. "I was just walking. We hobbits are naturally very quiet." 

"If only that were true," muttered Thorin.

Bilbo made an exasperated sound high in his nose. "Look, I didn't come here to bother you, I just came to get my cooking utensils." He picked them up with a clatter and stuffed them into his pack. "And I'm sorry, but if you're going to take everything I say as some kind of personal attack then that's your problem, not mine." He opened his mouth to say something else, then stopped, looking at the sword. "That's very impressive," he said.

Thorin cut the air with it and the hobbit moved a few paces further away. "Its name is Deathless, after Durin, the founder of our race. I forged it in the fires of Erebor."

"Durin? You mean like the--" Bilbo closed his mouth as if unwilling to bring up the topic once more. "You _made_ that?" he said instead, looking grudgingly impressed.

"It has never failed me," said Thorin, sheathing it once more. "And it will not fail us tomorrow either."

"I've never doubted your strength or your bravery," Bilbo retorted, shouldering his pack. "Just your manners," he added at the door, and disappeared.

Thorin reflected that he was getting tired of never having the last word with this annoying halfling.

**: : :**

"Before we leave," said Thorin, "I have finished a rough translation of the new verse from Sindarin into Westron." He cleared his throat, looking at the other dwarves, and recited:

" _To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane_  
Requires idle love in sweet repose;  
A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain  
Is like a blossom that unblighted grows."

"That's a pretty translation," said Kíli.

Thorin looked like he was trying not to roll his eyes. "I need you all to memorize it," he said.

"What? Why?" asked Fíli.

"Just do it," said Thorin, saying the verse again.

The other dwarves muttered it back, and Thorin corrected the words they got wrong. "Try again."

"This is kind of a silly thing to focus on before charging into battle, Uncle," said Fíli.

"It is necessary you all know it," said Thorin.

"But _why_?"

Thorin made an exasperated noise. "Because if I fall today, it will be up to you to carry on our quest, and you do not know Sindarin, so stop questioning me and _memorize the poem_ ," he snarled.

Fíli closed his mouth with a look of horror on his face and meekly recited the poem back to Thorin until he seemed satisfied.

"Very well. It is time. I shall take the lead, with Mr. Baggins behind me." Thorin pointed at his nephews. "You are to stay to the left and right of Mr. Baggins. Balin and Dwalin shall take up the rear."

Bilbo couldn't help but notice this put him in the most well-defended position; he fingered the hilt of his knife uneasily, not liking the idea that Fíli and Kíli might have to protect him at their own risk. Thorin's eye fell on his nervous fingers, and he stilled them with an effort.

"There will be fewer undead out in the full light of day," said Thorin, still looking at him, "and they will be greatly weakened. We may not even have to fight at all."

"That would be a shame," grinned Kíli.

"Yes, because you did so well against them the first time," growled Thorin, and the smile fell from his nephew's face. Thorin turned away to check his pack as if he hadn't seen anything, but Bilbo saw a chagrined expression cross his face for an instant. "There should be no barrow-wight with them this time," he said more softly, looking at his pack. "A barrow-wight is a dread foe, one that none of us could stand against." He tied the pack closed and swung it onto his shoulders. "Let's go."

Dwalin and Balin stood on either side of the heavy stone doors of the library and pushed them open; thin autumn sunlight streamed across the threshold.

Thorin took a deep breath and broke into a run, and Bilbo followed him, his heart pounding.

The next hours were a blur of panic and a whirl of terror for Bilbo. The skeletons were scattered and slower in the light of day, but sometimes one would rise from the ground directly in front of them, its long fingers grasping in glee. Deathless cleaved bone again and again, and beside him Kíli and Fíli spun and countered each attack so that no undead warrior ever came near Bilbo. 

On they ran, sturdy legs eating up the distance until Bilbo felt he couldn't take another step, and then he gritted his teeth and ran more. 

On the horizon, a long line of cairns stood against the sky. "I believe that marks the edge of the downs," rasped Thorin. "If we can get past that--"

Dwalin grunted and whacked a skeleton so hard that its head flew off; it reached up to touch its neck in puzzlement before collapsing. More fell in behind it, their arms reaching out. "Go!" Dwalin bellowed.

Impossibly, Thorin picked up the pace. Bilbo's lungs were burning and his vision swam, but he ran doggedly on, staying between Fíli and Kíli.

Running at top speed, they charged between the cairns--and discovered that the stones had been perched on the edge of a low bluff. With a bark of alarm, Thorin skidded and then tumbled down the bluff, and Bilbo followed after, unable to stop his momentum. Thorin ended up in a gorse bush, and Bilbo thumped into him a moment later, ending up in a flailing tangle of limbs. He heard cursing from Fíli and Kíli on either side, and realized that the air was clearer; some barrier had been crossed, and the miasma of fear and hate that hung over the battlefield was gone.

"Balin," panted Thorin beneath him, struggling to sit up. _"Dwalin!"_

The two older dwarves weren't with them.

Thorin staggered to his feet, his eyes wild. _"Balin!"_ he howled.

He was lurching back up the bluff, scrabbling wildly against the crumbling slope, when two burly figures appeared against the reddening sky. They skidded down the bluff, keeping their footing, to end up near the rest of the party. "Takes more than a few skeletons to stop us," growled Dwalin.

Bilbo saw Thorin's shoulders sag as Fíli and Kíli hugged the older dwarves; his legs gave out from under him entirely and he sat down hard on the debris-strewn ground. "Don't do that to me," he panted, his voice hoarse and so low that Bilbo suspected only he could hear him. Then he took a deep breath and bellowed it: _"Do not do that, do you hear me!"_

"Well, lad, we could hardly _not_ hear you, could we?" Balin grinned and rubbed at his ear. 

Thorin was covered with a fine layer of dust and enough bits of gorse that he should have looked amusing, but Bilbo saw his eyes and looked away. "Losing you is unacceptable," Thorin said, turning away to search for his pack.

"We'll keep that under advisement," said Balin.

"Mahal forbid we do something _unacceptable_ ," chuckled Dwalin. 

"We can reach the pass before nightfall if we do not waste any more time," Thorin announced, turning to follow the path that wound north-west.

"Yes, Uncle, I _do_ think that we were very brave," said Kíli beneath his breath, falling in behind him. "Kind of you to mention it."

"I thought you were quite courageous," said Bilbo.

Kíli and Fíli's faces made it clear that it didn't mean quite the same thing coming from him. "Thank you," Fíli said politely.

Together they strode toward the Evendim Pass, following Thorin's unyielding back once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delightful Mekare drew [the Company planning their escape!](http://mekare.dreamwidth.org/16188.html#cutid1)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives at the ancient city of Annúminas, where Bilbo gets some surprising lessons in Dwarvish genealogy.

The sun was setting as they came through the Evendim Pass and looked down upon the valley. Lake Evendim nestled at the base of the hills, deep blue in the shadows cast by the downs, and Bilbo could see the Baranduin winding southward from it, disappearing into the haze of distance toward the gentle fields of the Shire. 

Bilbo looked south and his heart ached. It was nearly his birthday. Were people searching for him? Was anyone worried about him? When would he see his home again?

Thorin looked back at him impatiently and Bilbo hoisted his pack once more and hurried along the trail.

They camped at the edge of the lake, its gentle splashing a constant murmur under their voices. "I've never seen so much water in one place," said Bilbo to Kíli as they set up their bedrolls.

"It's much bigger than Long Lake, that's for certain," said Kíli. "I hear the ocean is bigger still."

"Hard to imagine," said Bilbo, and heard Thorin snort nearby in the twilight. "Have you seen the sea?" he asked the half-seen presence.

"We spent time in the Enedwaith, in the ruins of Lond Daer, once a great harbor of the Númenorians." There was a rustling noise as Thorin laid down. "The sound of waves on the rocks was always there, and the sea stretched out beyond the horizon, an infinite blue." Silence fell for so long that Bilbo decided he had fallen asleep, and closed his eyes himself. Nearly asleep, he was startled to hear Thorin say softly, as if to himself:

"It was beautiful."

**: : :**

They were woken by rain in the morning, a damp and misty drizzle that softened the outlines of things and faded the landscape into watercolors. The dwarves complained about the damp, but Bilbo found it oddly soothing as they trudged along the edge of the lake. He even decided not to point out that if he still had his umbrella, he could have shared it around. Kíli brought down a duck as they walked, and Bilbo's spirits rose more: if they could find shelter in the evening, he could cook a proper meal for the first time in days.

The cobblestone path was broken with weeds and missing stones, but long stretches were smooth and easy to walk. Willows lined the banks of the lake, trailing long branches with golden autumn leaves in the water. Fíli and Kíli started to sing a song about a lost diamond, and Dwalin and Balin joined in at the chorus. Thorin didn't sing, but the set of his shoulders seemed marginally less grim as they wound south and west along the lake.

They crossed the Baranduin over a crumbling bridge, covered with scarlet ivy. Ruined pillars and broken statues started to appear in the fog, fragments of walls connecting nothing. Yet Bilbo got no sense of menace or weight from Annúminas, no feeling of the malice that Fornost had reeked of. Only sadness and loss like mist, gentle and wistful. 

Finally, late in the afternoon, they found themselves in the ruins of a city. Few buildings were still intact: golden flowers overgrew marble walls that were more graceful, less brutally strong than the architecture of Fornost. On the edge of the lake was a large building with a domed roof of some blue stone, now cracked and fallen in. "The library," said Thorin, nodding toward it. "Let us find a place to set up camp and we can enter it in the morning."

As the dwarves unpacked, Kíli held up the plucked duck to Bilbo with a hopeful expression. "If we start a fire, do you think...?"

"I'll do my best," said Bilbo, wishing he had some currant jam or tomatoes. "Did you notice those blackberries by the side of the road just before the gate? Could you get me some?"

Within hours he had a roasted duck with blackberry and thyme sauce that he thought was quite nice, if he did say so himself. The dwarves seemed to agree, digging in with a gusto that would have been complimentary if it hadn't been slightly alarming. Only Thorin seemed unimpressed, picking at his meat and staring at the distant azure roof. _Had you expected raptures of delight, Bilbo Baggins? From him?_ Bilbo firmly put his unreasonable disappointment away and tucked into his own meal, enjoying it enough for both of them.

**: : :**

The next few days were quiet, with a burst of clear autumn weather that gave them deep blue skies and cool crisp days. There were no undead haunting the willow-lined streets of Annúminas, no danger to guard against, and everyone's spirits rose. Fíli and Kíli hunted and explored, Bilbo cooked and learned combat, Balin and Dwalin fished and bemoaned the lack of a nearby tavern.

And Thorin lost himself in the library of Annúminas.

It was in much worse condition than the warded library of Fornost: open to the sky in places, time and weather leaving little beyond scraps and shreds of tomes. Mice and insects haunted the shelves, and the wind soughed through cracks in the walls. Yet there was more than enough to keep him busy and out of everyone's way, especially the hobbit's. 

Why he was avoiding Bilbo he wasn't exactly sure. The look of hurt on his face when Thorin had threatened him kept rising up in his mind's eye at odd moments, which was annoying since _Mr. Baggins_ was the one who had insulted the entire Line of Durin. Thorin huffed out a breath that lifted dust into sparking motes before his eyes and focused on another piece of crabbed Elvish script.

He returned to the campsite when it grew too dark to see, finding the rest of his party sitting around the fire and singing a dwarvish birthday song. "It's Mr. Bagg--I mean Bilbo's birthday!" said Kíli as he sat down.

"May your beard grow ever longer." Thorin said the traditional words absently as he sat down and began to eat, and Kíli nudged Fíli and snickered at the bemused expression on Bilbo's face.

"It would have been a lovely party," Bilbo said wistfully. "I'd hired jugglers and ordered so many flowers." 

Thorin took a bite of his dinner--trout this evening, and even better than Bilbo's usual meals, although he was hardly going to say so--and said nothing.

"Do you have parties on your birthdays in Erebor?" Bilbo asked.

"Usually we have small parties, just for the family," Fíli said.

Kíli grimaced. "Yes, that's a lot better than--"

"--Don't," said Fíli.

"I'll tell them if I want to," said Kíli, looking angry at his brother for the first time Thorin could remember. "I think Uncle Thorin should know that--"

"Know what?" Thorin asked.

Kíli looked at Fíli, who looked away, his color high. "Well, Fíli's last birthday, Grandfather decided he wanted to make it a big public affair. You know, with pronouncements and ceremony and all that folderol. Fíli said he didn't want it, but Grandfather was...well, he insisted."

Fíli was still staring off into the darkness. Beside him, Bilbo looked confused. "Big public affair?" he said.

"You know," muttered Kíli. "How Fíli is 'the future of Erebor' and all that. Parade him in front of everyone."

"Like some kind of show stud or something," Fíli said bitterly.

Bilbo opened his mouth and closed it again, his forehead furrowing.

"Well, Fíli kind of...didn't attend," said Kíli. "And Grandfather, he...he sent guards to make him come. Dragged him in front of everyone and delivered this huge tirade about how such behavior was unworthy of the great-grandson of King Thrór--"

"Uh," said Bilbo, a small sound of surprise, as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

"--And how perhaps he was unworthy to be in line for the throne, and..." Kíli's voice faltered. 

"And how I took after _other members_ of my family who were no longer to be named in the halls of Erebor," Fíli burst out angrily. "And I told him right in front of everyone that I'd rather be like my Uncle Thorin than anyone in the world."

Thorin felt a wave of startled affection roll over him at Fíli's words. "Fíli--" he started.

Bilbo stood up abruptly, staring straight ahead. "Oh," he said, his face very pale. His mouth twisted. "Oh my."

Then he turned and bolted into the shadows without another word.

"What's wrong with him?" Dwalin said. "Is he sick?" He looked down at his plate. "Is the trout bad?"

Thorin snorted. "Talking about the Line of Durin seems to discomfit the hobbit. Give him time to recover himself." But when they finished their meal and there was still no sign of him, Thorin began to grow concerned. Annúminas seemed safe, but perhaps he'd managed to get into trouble anyway? Was he trapped in some abandoned well somewhere, or fallen into the lake? 

"I'll go fetch the hobbit back," he said, standing.

It wasn't hard to follow the path Bilbo had taken; in fact the footprints he had left behind indicated both hurry and a complete lack of care for where he was walking. Thorin finally found him sitting on a stone at the edge of the lake, looking out at the dark water.

"Mr. Baggins," he said as he walked up behind him, "Do you plan to return to camp tonight or--"

"--I am so sorry," said Bilbo, jumping to his feet. "Thorin. I am so sorry."

Thorin stopped dead. In the pale moonlight, Bilbo's face was drawn with distress. "What?"

"I can't believe that I--the things I said--no wonder--" Bilbo shook his head vigorously, holding up a hand as if to forestall any words from Thorin, and took a deep breath. "I said terrible, hurtful things to you in Fornost, and I must beg your pardon. I really must," he said in a rush.

"Why are you apologizing to me now?" Thorin said. "And why did you say them at all, if you're so sorry about it?"

 _"I didn't know!"_ Bilbo wailed. "Everyone talked about Regent Thráin, and you talked about your father, but no one ever--I mean, I had no idea--and then I said--can you ever forgive me?"

Thorin stood for a long moment, staring at Bilbo. Then he drew a deep breath into his lungs. Bilbo flinched.

 _"Fíli? Kíli!"_ Thorin bellowed.

**: : :**

Soon Bilbo was poring over a family tree hastily scratched in the dirt and listening with one ear to Thorin scolding Fíli and Kíli.

"I'm _sure_ we told him, Uncle!" Fíli was protesting. "We told him all about how you angered Prince-Regent Thráin--"

"--how he angered _his father_ ," Bilbo. "You failed to mention his father was the Regent!"

Fíli looked confused. "But _everybody_ knows that," he said.

"Well, _I_ didn't! How could I? And you said his father told him to leave home," complained Bilbo. "You didn't say he was formally banished from the Kingdom of Erebor!"

"Well, Erebor _is_ home," explained Kíli. 

Bilbo looked up from the family tree to glare at him. "You know, in the Shire we have calling cards that make these things clear, and we do _proper_ introductions rather than simply growling at people for banging into you."

Fíli shrugged. "I guess it just seemed obvious to us."

"To be fair to the lads," said Dwalin, "We do tend to just take it for granted."

On the other side of the fire, Thorin shook his head. He seemed to be finding all of this rather amusing, to Bilbo's amazement. "Apparently I do not seem particularly regal."

Bilbo nodded triumphantly. "Exactly! I mean..." He narrowed his eyes at the chuckling Thorin. "You know what I mean!" He whacked his forehead with his hand, looking down at the lines on the ground, seeing the connections moving downward from Thrór to Thráin and then to Thorin and finally his nephews. "Of course. Now I see why it's so important to find--" He glimpsed a flash of alarm on Thorin's face and broke off, suddenly remembering Thorin's low voice in the library of Fornost: _there is more that they do not know._ "I mean, if he's your _grandfather_ , it's only natural you'd do anything to find a way to cure him."

Thorin's quick look of relief and gratitude was gone almost before Bilbo was sure he'd seen it. "I will not leave him to suffer if I can find a way to restore his mind to him."

"But your father--why--" Bilbo stammered to a halt, fearful of offending once more, but Thorin merely looked grim.

"My father claims that King Thrór is beyond hope. He...suggested it would be best to let the King wander into the depths of Erebor in his delirium, to vanish into the labyrinths below. One day my grandfather was...not well." Thorin's eyes were shadowed, and Bilbo suspected that although this was the truth, there was much Thorin was leaving undetailed. "In my efforts to keep him from harming himself...my father found witnesses to claim that I was assaulting the King. He stripped me of my rank in front of all the dwarves of Erebor and banished me from the Lonely Mountain."

Dwalin leaned forward into the firelight. "Óin and Glóin will safeguard the King, Thorin. They are loyal."

"You still have allies within Erebor," agreed Balin quietly. "And without."

"You have my bow, Uncle!" cried Kíli.

"And my knives," added Fíli.

"The true Heir shall return to Erebor and heal our King," Dwalin said.

Bilbo cleared his throat and looked away, feeling awkward in his silence. But what did he have to offer a prince on a quest: his lemon drops? His viola tea? Besides, he'd be going home to the Shire soon, and they'd be going on without him. He was just a small burden they had picked up for a time. He wasn't part of their story.

For the first time, as he reminded himself of that, he felt a tiny pang twist beneath his breastbone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo search the library of Annúminas together, seeking clues.

A skylark's sweet song woke Thorin in the gray of morning. Rising quietly, he washed his face in the nearby canal and started back toward the library.

"Can I help?" Thorin turned to find Bilbo Baggins standing on the stone pavement behind him. The halfling shrugged. "I'm getting bored with knife practice, and reading and research are more my area anyway." After a pause, Bilbo added tentatively, "...your majesty."

"What?"

"Well, it was a very tiny library, of course, but I did have one of the larger collections of books and manuscripts in the Shire, and--"

"--No, I mean, what did you call me?"

"Oh." Bilbo looked uncomfortable. "Is 'your majesty' the wrong term? Should it be 'my lord'? I don't know much about titles. The Shire isn't exactly overflowing with royalty, after all."

Thorin frowned. "Are you mocking me?"

Bilbo threw his hands up in horror, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no! I just want to make sure I don't--you know--after all, you are a prince, and--"

"--I was stripped of my title and rank when I was banished from Erebor." He turned to walk toward the library, Bilbo falling in beside him. "I am merely Thorin, and you may call me such--I mean, I would rather you call me Thorin."

"Very well...Thorin." 

There was still a formality to Bilbo's voice that made Thorin uneasy. He shrugged awkwardly. "I never liked being called by my titles. Even if I were to regain my status, I would...rather you call me Thorin." Bilbo said nothing, and Thorin strode on toward the library in silence, feeling increasingly thunderous. 

Finally he stopped and turned on his heel to glare at the hobbit. "Look here, Mr. Baggins," he growled, "If you are going to continue to hold my previous churlish behavior against me, I would prefer you to say so openly rather than tagging at my heels and silently disapproving of me! You have no right to judge me, and I--" He stopped abruptly when he realized Bilbo was smiling. _"What?"_

"Well," said Bilbo with something close to a smirk, "You were being so nice to me lately that I was starting to worry there was something wrong with you. But no, you're still most definitely the mannerless dwarf I banged into in Bree, no doubt about that." He started to walk toward the library then looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, and if you don't like titles, you'd better just call me 'Bilbo,' don't you think? I've almost got your nephews broken of calling me 'Mr. Baggins,' and I'd like you to set a good example." He nodded as if he were very pleased with himself. "Now, shall we get to work?"

He set off again; after a moment, Thorin followed him, shaking his head.

**: : :**

Bilbo blew dust off an old map, wincing as the parchment crackled in his hands. The library of Annúminas was quiet except for the quiet lapping of the lake outside and the gentle turning of pages as Thorin read in the other room. Bilbo peeked around the corner to see him peering at a book, his reading spectacles perched on his nose once more, lost in thought.

Bilbo picked up another stack of disintegrating documents with careful hands, placing them on the table next to Thorin. "These are a mix of Sindarin and Westron, and seem to be about dragons," he said. "Though not in good condition."

"Thank you, Mr. Bagg--Bilbo," Thorin corrected himself.

"You should take a break before starting them," said Bilbo. "I brought some apples, let's sit down and have a snack."

"I'm _fine_ ," snapped Thorin. His stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly, and he looked chagrined. "I suppose an apple would not go amiss," he muttered.

They sat down on the remains of a wall, overlooking the lake. Far behind them they could faintly hear Dwalin yelling at Fíli and Kíli about careless battle stances, and the clash of steel on steel. Bilbo took a bite of apple, looking at Thorin out of the corner of his eye. "Can I ask you a question about your family?"

"Considering the previous disastrous results of your ignorance, I would say it's a good idea," said Thorin.

"They said Fíli is the heir to the Line of Durin," said Bilbo. "But you are still--well, you don't seem too old to have children, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I shall have no heir," Thorin said.

"Well, you can't be so sure of that," Bilbo said. "I mean, you're still young, and--and not unattractive--I mean, I don't know what dwarf women find attractive, I suppose, but still--"

"--I shall have no heir," Thorin repeated. "I have consulted the _givesh-tharakh_ , and I know."

"The--the gives-thack?"

Thorin shot him an annoyed look and hurled his apple core into the lake with a resonant _plonk_. "The _givesh-tharakh_. It is...an oracle of sorts. There are few women among our kind, and thus it is the fate of much of our race to go without a mate. The _givesh-tharakh_ is a ceremony that all male dwarflings go through on reaching adulthood."

"It tells the future?"

"Not in so many words," Thorin said. "The dwarfling must go on a quest to find a certain type of rock, a kind of geode. We fast and meditate and search until we find the stone that touches our soul. Then the stone is broken open. The inside of the stone can range from black to white, with many kinds of striations and marblings. The patterns hint at certain futures, but the general color of the stone tells a dwarf whether he will ever find a mate in his life. The more black at the stone's heart, the better the chance of such a person to share our lives." Thorin took a bite of another apple, gazing out over the water.

"And..."

Thorin grimaced. "The historians examined my stone and said they had never seen such a perfectly white center. There is no mate in the world for me."

"Oh. Um, I'm sorry to hear that."

Thorin glowered at him. "It was a relief. I was able to dedicate myself fully to saving my grandfather, without wasting time on wooing."

Bilbo tried to imagine Thorin "wooing" anyone, and winced slightly as his imagination sputtered and failed. "Well," he said cheerfully, "If I'm ever in Erebor I shall have to try this giveth-taketh thing and see what my odds are."

Thorin snorted. "It is a dwarvish custom; I sincerely doubt it would work on halflings."

They sat in silence for a time, then Bilbo bit his lip and spoke again. "So this cure. You have to find it because you're worried about your nephews falling victim to the dragon-sickness."

Thorin looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Most people would assume I wanted to find it for my own sake."

Bilbo waved his hand. "Well, certainly. But I've seen how you care about them. They're the real reason."

"They are the future of Erebor."

"They're your nephews, and you love them."

Thorin made a _harrumphing_ noise, then scrambled to his feet. "Back to work," he said shortly, then added "--Bilbo," as if faintly surprised.

**: : :**

"Come over here." Thorin's voice held a barely-suppressed excitement. "Look at this signature. Do you think this says 'Elloth'?"

Bilbo squinted at the scrap of paper in Thorin's hands. Eaten by worms, it was reduced nearly to lace. "I think so, yes," he said.

"This is it," Thorin said. He put the piece of paper down; Bilbo saw that his hands had started shaking. "It's another verse from the poem."

"Not much left of it," Bilbo said dubiously.

"No," breathed Thorin. "But still..." He pointed. "Look here, we can see this whole line: _In lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves_. And here, and here--" His finger hovered over the paper, "--you can just barely make out the Sindarin words for 'alabaster' and 'emerald.' Alabaster and emerald." Thorin smiled. "It's not much, but it's more than we had."

"What does that one line mean, about the waves?"

Thorin frowned. "'Vengeful waves' must be a reference to the Fall of Beleriand, where the lands west of the Blue Mountains were swallowed by the sea after the War of Wrath, at the end of the First Age. Perhaps that means the artifact can be found in the west of Middle Earth, in the area near what used to be Beleriand."

Bilbo frowned. "Wait a moment." He pulled the old map out of the pile, settling it on the table. The Misty Mountains formed the eastern border of the map, with the sea covering the west and southern sides. Annúminas was at the center, Fornost off to the east and the lands that would become the Shire just to the south. To the northwest was the mountain range of Ered Luin, and beyond them the sea. And to the far northwest...

Bilbo touched the little island marked "Himring." "Isn't this one of the last remnants of Beleriand?"

Thorin bent over the map, his eyes avid. "A land that escaped the vengeful waves. Yes. This island was once a hill, the fortress of Maedhros, son of Fëanor. Perhaps it is there that we can find the item that will save my King." He looked at Bilbo, and there was hope in his face like a dawn, transfiguring all his sullenness to beauty for a moment. "Let's tell the others," he said.

Within hours, the camp was broken and everyone's packs were re-packed, though Dwalin protested bitterly that nearly all of western Middle-earth could count as "lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves," and couldn't they pick someplace a little more likely to have a tavern? But when he saw the light in Thorin's eyes, he sighed and put away his fishhooks and viol without further complaint.

"There should be a human settlement to the west," Thorin said, looking at his own map once more. "We can buy ponies there, and fresh provisions to replace the ones my nephews lost." They started to apologize, but he waved them to silence. He was nearly smiling as he hoisted his pack and started along the lakeshore path once more. "And we can find an escort for Bilbo to see him safely back to his Shire once more."

"Oh." Bilbo blinked. He had rather expected that Thorin would forget all about getting him back to the Shire. Well, it was a relief to know he'd be back home soon, then.

Yes, it was a relief.

"I thought you might ride south with me and see me home," he said after a moment.

"I do not have time to dally in quaint halfling villages and nibble on scones and drink tea," Thorin snorted. "Not when I have the most promising lead I have ever found. No, we shall find you a tinker or merchant who is traveling south and bid you farewell."

Silence fell as they walked along. Fíli and Kíli exchanged glances. Balin looked at Bilbo and bit his lip. Dwalin frowned at Thorin's back.

After a hundred paces or so, Thorin cleared his throat. "Unless, that is, you wished to stay in our party a while longer and travel further with us."

Bilbo's heart gave a great bound of surprise and--well, certainly it must be alarm--at his words. "Oh," he stammered. "Oh, but I'm so close to home now. I really should get back to Bag End. I'm not really--I don't think I have much to add to your quest."

"But Bilbo, your food!" Kíli burst out.

"And you haven't finished teaching me those halfling ballads," Balin noted.

"You're the one who's good with maps," Dwalin said. "We're less likely to get lost with you along."

"Also, rabbit stew!" Fíli added.

"I--I don't know," faltered Bilbo.

"Stop hounding him," Thorin said curtly without turning around. "If Mr. Baggins wishes to return home, he does not need you to pester him with complaints." Under his breath, he added in a mutter, "Mahal knows there have been times I wish I were quit of the lot of you."

He stomped on with the rest of his party trailing after, leaving Bilbo to wonder how going from first names back to titles could feel like such a demotion.

**: : :**

The little golden pony had a long, thick forelock that nearly covered her eyes; she nickered and lipped Bilbo's hair. "Thank you," Bilbo said faintly.

Thorin threw Bilbo's pack onto the pony's back and fastened it. "We owe you far more than that for your services," he said.

"My services, yes. I see," said Bilbo.

"In fact..." Thorin reached into a pocket and carefully doled out three shining emeralds. They glittered in the palm of Bilbo's hand. "Our thanks go with you, Bil--Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo closed his fingers over them. "It was my pleasure," he murmured.

"Now, I must finish buying some provisions." Thorin sketched a bow to Bilbo. "I shall return to say our farewells."

The mare stomped her hoof as the stable door swung shut, and Bilbo stroked her neck absently. There was a group of merchants heading south to the Shire in a few days; travelling with them would be safe and secure. And he wanted to be safe and secure, right?

"Lad." Bilbo looked up to see Dwalin standing at the door of the stable, his arms crossed. "You'll really be leaving us?"

"Thorin seems eager enough to be rid of me." Bilbo bit his lip at the unexpected bitterness in his voice.

"Well, he's not," said Dwalin. "He wouldn't be insisting so hard that you leave if he didn't want you to stay."

"That's--well, that's just ridiculous."

"That's Thorin. He pushes everything away because he thinks it'll hurt less then when he loses it." Dwalin shrugged. "He's wrong, of course, but far be it from me to correct him."

Bilbo blinked. This was the longest speech he'd ever heard Dwalin give. 

"You watch," Dwalin went on. "As we ride away, just before we go out of sight, he'll turn around for a last look at you." He looked at Bilbo. "I'm only saying this because I think you might want to come along. But if I'm wrong, well..." Shrugging again, he turned and left.

The little mare stomped again. "Don't worry," said Bilbo into her golden ear. "I won't drag you off to parts unknown, over mountains and rivers to some mythical island in the endless sea." His fingers tightened in her pale mane. "With a bunch of mad dwarves on some vain quest. No sir, we're going back to the Shire together and you'll have all the oats you want and I'll have a nice comfortable chair in Bag End once more."

The mare rolled a soft brown eye at him and looked dubious.

"Don't you start with me too," said Bilbo.

**: : :**

"Goodbye, Bilbo!" Kíli waved from the back of his pony, nearly falling off. "Please come see us in Erebor sometime!" 

Thorin looked down from his shaggy pony at Bilbo. "Be safe, Mr. Baggins." He opened his mouth again, then shut it, and kicked his pony into a walk.

The trail wound westward, topping a hill, and Bilbo watched them go. Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin and Balin all turned to wave goodbye, but Thorin looked resolutely ahead as they climbed the hill. He didn't look back at all. 

Bilbo watched the four other dwarves disappear over the rise until only Thorin was left.

At the top of the hill, Thorin's pony stopped. He sat still for a moment, gazing west. Then, with a strangely abrupt motion, as if he couldn't help himself, he turned and looked back toward Bilbo. With a small and awkward hand gesture, too tentative to even be a wave, he turned away once more.

Bilbo watched him disappear from sight. Then he turned slowly and started to walk toward the stables.

By the fifth step he was running.

**: : :**

Thorin rode in silence. It was a long road ahead of them and he was in no mood to talk. The fall weather was glorious; he scowled at the sun as if it were a personal insult. The other dwarves were subdued, and even his nephews seemed disinclined to sing and chatter along the road. 

Thorin wrapped himself in his foul mood like a cloak against a hard rain and said nothing.

When he heard drumming hoofbeats behind them he didn't turn to look. Only when he heard Balin murmur "Well, I'll be blessed," under his breath and Fíli yell an inarticulate sound of delight did he pull the pony to a halt and look back.

Bilbo was clinging to the back of a galloping pony, hanging on for dear life as it raced toward the dwarves. "Whoa! Whoa!" he yelled as it came closer, pulling on the reins, and the pony dropped into a cheerful canter before halting next to Thorin's mount.

"Uh, strangest thing," Bilbo gasped, looking more winded than the pony. "I don't know what happened, I got on Daffodil here and she just bolted off to the west, wouldn't listen to a word I said. Strangest thing, really." He patted the mare's neck and she tossed her head, looking pleased with herself. "Just took off after you dwarves and...well..." He trailed off and looked over at Thorin, a quick elliptical glance. "...actually, I was rather hoping I could keep traveling with you a little while longer."

"How much longer?" asked Kíli before Thorin could say anything, which was a relief because he had been going to ask the same thing, and it would have been undignified to sound as eager as his nephew.

"Oh, I've never seen the sea," Bilbo said. "And--and it would be quite an adventure to see an island that used to be an elvish fortress! So maybe after Himring you can drop me off back at the Shire."

"Depending on what we find, we shall see you safely home after our time in Himring," Thorin announced.

"That would be quite kind of you, thank you," Bilbo said awkwardly.

"Let us not delay any longer." Thorin kicked his pony into a walk again. "It is good to have you along, Bilbo," he called back over his shoulder.

The glance he caught of Bilbo's smile made him look away quickly to the west: the west, where the goal of all his life, his heart's desire, might be waiting for him at last.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's company travels north along the coast toward Himring: in which there are language lessons, cold weather, and the first sight of the sea.

In later years, Bilbo would say that the weeks spent travelling from Annúminas to Himring were uneventful and hardly worth mentioning. That the riding was easy and no one was chasing them, and so there was little to relate. That he hardly remembered them.

The last assertion would be untrue--but then, happy, peaceful memories are rarely the stuff of legends.

**: : :**

They forded the Lune early, when it was relatively shallow, their ponies snorting and shaking their shaggy manes in disapproval on the other side. They followed the river south and west, with the Blue Mountains rising to their right, hazy indigo against the setting sun. There was game aplenty in the fertile valley of the Lune: pheasant and rabbit and fish from the river. Bilbo found truffles to flavor his meals, and fresh dill to add to the fish, and they ate like kings (better than kings, Thorin thought privately).

One afternoon Thorin heard Bilbo, riding ahead of him, gasp as he topped a rise and pulled his pony to a halt. Thorin hurried to catch up with him and found Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli staring out to the west at the sea lying below them, its dark blue-green surface stretching endlessly to the horizon.

As always, on first seeing the sea, Thorin felt that tug at his heart, unwelcome and imperious. He tamped it down and cleared his throat. "Is it as impressive as you'd hoped?"

"It's..." Kíli started, gazing out at it.

"Yeah," Fíli added, nodding. "It is."

"It's really..."

"...really big."

"And beautiful."

"Yeah."

Bilbo was staring at the sea, his expression puzzled. Then his face cleared. "It's exactly the same color as Thorin's eyes," he announced with an air of triumph. He blinked as everyone but Thorin turned to look at him. "Well, it is!"

Thorin nudged his pony into a walk once more, glancing at Bilbo's face as he passed by, looking for a trace of mockery or irony. But Bilbo Baggins did not have a face made for either, and Thorin saw there only pleasantness and some confusion.

Surely he was the first dwarf in Middle-Earth to have his eyes compared to the great, wide, treacherous sea, Thorin thought with some bewilderment.

**: : :**

"I don't understand why we're not stopping there," Bilbo said, gazing wistfully at the distant grey walls of Mithlond, glimmering in the morning mist. "I mean, you know Sindarin, so surely--"

"--being able to read a language does not mean wishing to dally with the people who speak it," Thorin said shortly. "The history of elves and dwarves is not a kind one, and it is better not to risk stirring up old enmities."

"After all," pointed out Dwalin, "We are sort of on our way to try and pillage one of their ancient strongholds."

"Ah," said Bilbo. "Yes, well. Maybe we could ask them for help and--" He caught a glimpse of Thorin's face. "No, I suppose not." 

They rode on in silence for a while, following the road that wound to the north along the coast, leaving the walls of the Grey Havens behind. "So, can you actually speak Sindarin as well as read it?" Bilbo asked idly.

"There's not much need to," Thorin said. "My interest in the language is merely academic."

"But--"

"--But yes, I can speak the tongue." Thorin paused for a moment, and then recited in a low voice, deep as the distant sea:

_Le ú-iston,_  
_amman im trastannen?_  
_amman lalaith nîn gell?_  
_man eneth lîn?_

Bilbo and the dwarves stared at him, and he shrugged uncomfortably. "It's just a bit of poetry that stuck in my head once."

"What does it mean in Westron?" Bilbo asked.

"Nothing important," said Thorin, glowering. "Just more elvish nonsense."

And that was all they could get out of him on the topic.

**: : :**

They wound north up the coast, with the sea on their left hand and the Blue Mountains looming always on their right. The air was redolent with salt and silt, a deep, _old_ smell that made the ponies sneeze and shake their heads from time to time. Bilbo found new things to eat--salty seaweed to put in soup, clams to dig out of mud flats and steam with ale. The dwarves tended to wrinkle up their noses and complain at first with each new item, but after a bite or two they tucked in with enthusiasm.

Thorin sat at the campfire, looking out at the sea as his party relaxed. Balin and Dwalin were smoking and swapping stories about their youth; Fíli was practicing his fiddle; Kíli was waxing his bow strings and complaining about the damp salt air for the hundredth time. Bilbo was using a pocketknife to pry open some mottled, purple-shelled things he had found--mussels, that was what he had called them. The tip of his tongue was sticking very slightly out of his mouth as he concentrated.

Then his hand slipped and the knife glanced along the back of his hand.

 _{"Fucker of orcs!"}_ Bilbo yelped in Khuzdul.

Five dwarvish mouths fell open. "Bilbo!" gasped Kíli, a blush creeping up his face. "Where--what--"

Bilbo grinned blithely, sucking on the back of his hand. "Oh, I've heard Dwalin say it from time to time. It sounded like, you know, the kind of thing one would say in this situation."

"I might, yes," blustered Dwalin. "But that doesn't mean _you_ should."

Bilbo's eyes went wide in consternation. "I'm sorry, is it something terrible? I didn't mean to insult anyone--"

"--You have insulted no one," Thorin said hastily. "It is merely--well, not the kind of thing a hobbit like yourself usually would say." He stood and went over to Bilbo, eager to change the subject. "Is the wound deep?"

Bilbo held out his hand, where blood was beading along the back once more. "Not too serious. Stings, though."

Thorin reached into his pack and pulled out some bandaging. Taking Bilbo's hand in his--Bilbo opened his mouth and his fingers twitched, but then he subsided--he dabbed the blood away, then wound clean cloth around the hand. "You should be more careful, Bilbo," he said.

"Well, maybe you should teach me that language of yours, then," Bilbo retorted.

"I didn't mean with Khuzdul, you annoying halfling," grumbled Thorin. "And it is a secret language, forbidden to outsiders."

"Oh. Well, then," said Bilbo. "I see." His hand, lying in Thorin's, went oddly inert.

"Actually," said Balin, and Thorin focused on the bandages and tried not to look too eager, "The Book of Maluk-zaghal says 'anyone who walks the road of the people for a full moon is of the people.' Couldn't that be taken to mean that once Bilbo has traveled with us for a month he will be an honorary dwarf and can be taught Khuzdul?"

"I think so!" chorused Fíli and Kíli.

Thorin frowned as if he were considering. "I don't believe any non-dwarf has ever traveled with a company of dwarves for so long."

"I wonder why that is?" Bilbo said tartly.

"Perhaps because we are difficult and contrary beings, and not pleasant traveling companions," said Thorin gravely, meeting his eyes.

"Oh, I didn't mean--you're--you're all fine, very--very pleasant," Bilbo stammered.

Thorin tied off the bandage and released Bilbo's hand. "When did Bilbo start to travel with you?" he asked his nephews.

They cast their eyes upward, remembering. "It was...just after the new moon," said Fíli.

"And now the moon is waning once more. It will be new within a few days," said Thorin. Bilbo was looking at his bandaged hand and flexing the fingers gingerly. Thorin reflected that the amount of bandaging might have been out of proportion to the depth of the cut. He cleared his throat and spoke to Bilbo. "Would you be willing to learn Khuzdul?"

"Why, certainly!" Bilbo beamed. "I love languages almost as much as I love maps."

"Very well," said Thorin. "When the moon is new, Balin shall become your tutor."

Bilbo's face fell slightly. "Oh, ah. Balin, yes. Excellent choice. Yes." He nodded a few times. "Hm." He looked at his hand again. "I suppose this means that I shouldn't use the other phrase I heard Dwalin use, _{"sucker of goblin dick."}_

Thorin felt himself pale, and he shot a look at Dwalin, who was doing something Thorin had never seen him do--blush. "No," he said to Bilbo, "That also is a term that does not suit a hobbit."

"That's a shame," sighed Bilbo. "It sounded so nicely _angry._ "

**: : :**

The air was growing colder as they traveled north and as fall progressed. Early one morning it was bad enough that Bilbo found himself hopping up and down, chafing his arms to warm up as he waited for the potatoes to roast. Thorin made a grumbling noise and rolled over, blinking at him from bleary eyes.

"Sorry. Didn't really pack for a long journey," Bilbo explained. 

Thorin looked at him, considering. Then he rose from his bedroll, grabbed his coat, and cast it around Bilbo's shoulders.

Bilbo blinked as he was engulfed in leather and fur. "A trifle big for me, don't you think?"

"It will do for now," Thorin said. "We shall find you something more your size at another time."

Bilbo gingerly pulled it tighter, feeling the fur brushing his neck. It was softer than he had imagined--not that he had spent much time looking at that thick russet ruff and wondering what it would feel like to sink his fingers deep into it. "Won't you be cold?"

"Dwarves are made of sterner stuff than hobbits," Thorin said. "We do not feel the cold as keenly."

"Ah." Bilbo looked around the camp. All the other dwarves were still asleep. He pulled the potatoes away from the fire and checked them, adding a little salt and pepper. "Too bad we've no butter," he mused out loud. Hoisting the potatoes on their platter, invited Thorin to join him with a tilt of his eyebrows. 

Together they went a little way from the camp to let the others sleep. Bilbo clambered up on a smooth rock--with some difficulty due to the enveloping coat--to look out over the ocean once more, while Thorin sat at the base, his back to the stone. 

"I'm hoping Dwalin can catch more salmon soon," Bilbo said as he started to eat the potatoes. "My goodness, what a treat _that_ was."

Thorin grunted, his mouth full.

"It reminded me of the food at Otho and Lobelia's wedding," Bilbo reminisced. "Horrible people, but they know how to throw a party, I'll give them that."

"What's that?"

"Oh, Otho and Lobelia? They're Sackville-Bagginses, odious people, really."

"No, the 'wedding' thing." He pronounced the Westron as if it were unfamiliar, and Bilbo blinked down at him.

"It's--wait, you don't know what a wedding is?"

"I've heard the term here and there, traveling in human lands. It's a kind of party, right? Like a harvest festival?"

"No, it's--well, it's sort of a party," Bilbo had to admit in the interest of strict accuracy. "But it's a party where two people pledge to--promise to spend the rest of their lives together." Thorin was frowning. "You must have your own word for it."

"Why would you need to promise something like that?" Thorin was frowning. "Is this some kind of mystical binding-process halflings do?"

"What? No, of course not. Do dwarves--" Bilbo broke off, suddenly feeling that he was getting into deep water. He took a breath. "Do dwarves often change partners?"

Thorin looked like he couldn't decide whether to be confused or angry. "Your partner is your partner. Your mate. _Promising_ has nothing to do with it. When you are together, you are together." He shrugged. "In any case, most of us are remain unmated. Finding a partner is a very private thing. We do not need to parade our mates around in public."

"It's not--you make it sound rather awful," Bilbo said. "And it's not! A wedding is great fun. There's always lots of food and dancing, and people are happy, and they tell stories and sing. And it's...I don't know. I guess hobbits just like to let everyone know, 'this is the person I've chosen from everyone to share my life with, to walk the road together. This is the person I cherish above all others.'" Thorin was looking up at him, his expression hard to read. "I'm not explaining well," Bilbo said, frustrated. "You should come to a Shire wedding sometime, I'm sure you'd understand then."

"Hm," said Thorin. "Invite me to yours one day, and I shall see if I can understand what all the fuss is about." 

Bilbo was about to respond, but then he heard the sound of Fíli's voice from the camp, complaining bitterly: "Mahal's damnation, it's _cold_!" Kíli's voice joined in soon after, and Bilbo could hear his teeth chattering: "Can we go back to Erebor? This is horrible!"

Bilbo looked down at Thorin in his thin shirt. "Sterner stuff than hobbits?"

Thorin looked both annoyed and chagrined at the same time. "Well, _most_ dwarves are made of sterner stuff than hobbits." He stood, brushing off his plate. "No, keep it," he said as Bilbo tried to shrug out of the coat. "We'll find you something more suitable soon."

He headed back to camp, and soon Bilbo could hear him yelling at his nephews to warm up by packing, they needed to be on the road soon.

Bilbo lingered for a moment, looking out at the ocean, the sea breeze ruffling the fur at his throat.

Wondering why the idea of Thorin attending his wedding made him feel sad.

**: : :**

"Balin! Balin! The moon was new last night!" said Kíli as they mounted. "You can start teaching Bilbo Khuzdul!"

"Oh, I suppose I can," Balin said, bringing his pony alongside Bilbo's. "Now, it is important to begin with declension. In Westron, conjugation is essential--I'm not saying Khuzdul doesn't have conjugation issues as well, but declension is really the key." 

"Ah," said Bilbo, nodding. "I see."

"It's quite simple, really. There are five main cases to remember: the ablative, nominative, accusative, locational, and instrumental." He stopped, pondering. "There's the vocative as well, but that's used rarely, we don't need it to start with." 

He started explaining about the ablative case--"used to express motion away from something else, of course"--but got sidetracked into the cultural reasons behind the importance of the case. Bilbo tried to pay attention, but soon was completely lost in a maze of grammar. He would have asked questions, but he couldn't even tell what he wasn't understanding.

Balin had gone on to the accusative case--"for marking the direct object of a transitive verb"--when Thorin kicked his pony into a trot and rode in between them. "By Durin's beard, Balin," he snarled. "You may know a great deal about Khuzdul grammar, but you know nothing of teaching a language."

Balin looked offended. "Oh? I suppose you think you could do better?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

Balin glared at him. "Well then, I shall leave the teaching to you," he announced, falling back in something of a huff.

Thorin rode beside Bilbo for a while in silence, until Bilbo started to wonder if perhaps he was never going to learn Khuzdul at all. Then he pointed at himself. "Khuzd," he said. He pointed at Bilbo. "Melekûn."

Bilbo repeated the words.

Thorin indicated the rest of the party with a sweeping motion. "Khazad."

"Oh, so the plural is made by changing the vowels?"

Thorin shot a triumphant glance at Balin, then back at Bilbo. "Indeed." He pointed to Fíli and Kíli. "Khuzdith."

"Nephew dwarves?" Thorin frowned. "Um...young dwarves?"

Thorin nodded. "So, then. If a horse is kharub, then a young horse is..."

Bilbo did some mental calculations. "Kharubith?"

Thorin slapped his horse's neck, grinning. "You are speaking Khuzdul already."

They rode through the morning, with Bilbo pointing at rivers, birds, trees, and Thorin telling him their names and the different declensions to change what the nouns meant.

The other dwarves trailed slightly behind them; when Bilbo turned back to look at them once he caught Balin and Dwalin sharing a smug look as Thorin was patiently repeating a sentence in Khuzdul. Bilbo raised his eyebrows: apparently Balin had deliberately gotten out of teaching him? Well! Bilbo felt slightly offended--he didn't think he was _that_ bad a student.

Thorin repeated his question more slowly, and Bilbo realized he was waiting for a response. "Oh!" Bilbo blurted, then painstakingly put together, " _{The sea--is--big.}"_

"Good work," said Thorin, nodding in satisfaction. "You make a satisfactory honorary dwarf."

Bilbo couldn't help it: he threw back his head and laughed. 

Daffodil's ears twitched back and she snorted; Thorin looked much the same. "What's so funny?"

"I'm just wondering how I would go about making you all honorary hobbits," Bilbo said. "You'd probably have to attend a dance or something, or learn how to properly steep tea." He wiped his eyes. "Oh, it would be hilarious. The Shire would never be the same."

Thorin looked disgruntled. "I am not unable to dance," he muttered.

"I want to see the Shire someday, Uncle!" said Fíli.

"I want to be an honorary hobbit!" said Kíli.

"I think if you want to be, you can," said Bilbo. He waved his hand. "You are now all officially honorary hobbits."

The nephews cheered, and Balin and Dwalin laughed. Only Thorin still looked annoyed. 

"I could have mastered any dance you set me as a challenge," he grumbled before turning back to the language lessons.

\----

Note: The poem that Thorin recites is from the end of _Cuil nîn prestannen,_ "My life is changed," a poem written in Sindarin and available [here](http://www.phy.duke.edu/~trenk/elvish/prestannen_s.html). Translated into English, the words are:

_I do not know you-_  
_Why am I stirred?_  
_Why is my laughter so happy?_  
_What is your name?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A beautiful [manip of a line from this chapter](http://filiandkiliheirsofdurin.tumblr.com/post/109609516414/clarity-of-vision-chapter-nine-by-mithen) by Filiandkiliheirsofdurin!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin's party rents a boat, and five dwarves and a hobbit set out to sea in search of a fabled elvish fortress.

"You wish to borrow my boat?" The man sitting outside the hut, mending his nets, seemed bewildered by the demand. "Dwarves and--whatever he is--in a boat?"

Thorin drew himself up to his full height and continued on: "We would leave you our mounts as a surety against the loss of your boat if we do not return. And..." He drew a gem from his pouch and put it in the man's hand.

The man's eyes widened as he looked at an opal the size of a cherry. "I can keep this if you don't return?"

"The ponies you can keep if we do not return," Thorin said carelessly. "The opal is yours in any case."

The man let out a low whistle. "I can buy myself three new boats with this," he said. He raised his eyebrows at them. "The boat is yours--but I have to tell you, there's no way to get onto that island. It's all sheer cliff face. Many have tried and failed."

"They were not us," Thorin announced. Bilbo shot him a glance: talking to strangers had re-summoned Thorin's old familiar arrogance. But he held his tongue as he patted Daffodil on the nose and gave her a wild carrot he'd been saving for a treat. 

"I'm sure we'll be back soon, Daff," he whispered.

She nickered and put her nose into his chest, shoving him playfully.

"Oh," said Thorin, turning back to the man, "We also have need of clothing that will fit the hobbit. Warm clothing."

"A hobbit? Is that what he is?" The man peered curiously at Bilbo. "I believe my boy has some jumpers he's outgrown, I'll throw them in as well."

The child's jumper was thick beige wool with a cabled pattern knitted into it. Bilbo suspected he looked ridiculous in it, but Fíli and Kíli assured him that he was "quite adorable," which didn't help much. He tried to look bold instead of adorable as he stood on the pier with his arms crossed, eyeing the little sailboat with a trepidation he attempted to hide.

"Hobbits and boats don't usually mix well," he said, looking at the rigging. "Do you know how to sail one of these?"

Balin, Dwalin, and Thorin exchanged glances. "We have some experience," said Thorin.

"But Dwalin made us promise never to speak of it again," said Balin.

Dwalin was looking distinctly green. "Perhaps I'll just stay here and guard the horses."

"We have no idea how long we'll be," Thorin said. "I need you at my side."

Dwalin swallowed hard. "Very well, Thorin," he muttered.

The reason for his worry became clear shortly after they cast off. Avoiding the side of the boat where Dwalin was groaning and retching, Bilbo made his way to where Thorin was standing in the bow.

The wind was blowing Thorin's hair back in a long dark stream as he gazed west, and Bilbo thought that if Thorin had been even the tiniest bit self-conscious, he would have looked ridiculous: an overwrought painting of some brooding romantic hero. As it was, he seemed entirely unaware of his appearance, and the effect was--well. Perhaps _striking_ was the right word, Bilbo decided. 

Thorin turned to look at him and smiled, pushing wind-tangled locks back from his face. "Your short hair has a distinct advantage here," he noted.

"You seem rather comfortable on a boat," Bilbo said. Even Fíli and Kíli were more subdued, following Balin's orders to the letter and refraining from horseplay as the boat skimmed over the waves.

Thorin shrugged. "I cannot afford to be squeamish about non-dwarvish things," he said. He lifted an eyebrow. "How are you doing?"

"It's...not bad," Bilbo said cautiously. He was reluctant to admit it even to himself--he was no Bucklander, after all!--but it was actually rather pleasant, with the sound of the waves and the wind snapping in the sails, the sharp keen scent of the sea and the endless westward blue. A seabird sailed by the boat, nearly touching the waves, and Bilbo followed its white wings with his gaze. "It's kind of pretty."

Then he blinked as he spotted a shape on the horizon. "Is that the island?" he asked, pointing.

Thorin squinted into the west, where the haze of distance was starting to solidify into a craggy form. "Himring," he breathed. "Last remnant of the First Age." Whirling, he started calling out to Balin and his nephews, barking orders, his body tense with energy and purpose.

Soon enough the sheer cliffs of the island loomed before them. At the top, Bilbo could see the traces of great stone walls, overgrown with scarlet ivy. "How are we supposed to get up there?" he murmured. "If no one else has done it in thousands of years..."

"...Ah," said Thorin, "But _we_ have a map." Grabbing a scroll from his pack, he unrolled it across a box to reveal the margins of an island in a penciled sea. "It's in Khuzdul," he said, indicating the spiky runes written in the margins, "Which is probably why it went unnoticed by elves or men." He pointed to a small mark on the western side. "There is a hidden entrance here in the cliffs, behind a waterfall." He raised his voice. "Be strong, Dwalin. We shall have you on solid land again soon."

Dwalin groaned and muttered something in Khuzdul that Bilbo decided not to remember for later.

There was a deep lagoon hidden within a cleft in the cliffs, with a high waterfall endlessly unfurling its silver into the water below. With the dwarves heaving at the oars, the boat slowly maneuvered behind the waterfall. 

In the water-rippling darkness, grey stone stairs gleamed, climbing upward.

**: : :**

"Thorin!" Bilbo's voice behind him was breathless and annoyed. "Could you perhaps slow up a bit?"

Thorin looked upward, where sunlight was glimmering at the top of the stairs. "But we're nearly there," he called back.

"We're about _halfway_ there," said Bilbo. "And some of us aren't so keen on stairs."

Thorin turned to snap something at the hobbit--and stopped when he realized that Bilbo was practically supporting a still-woozy Dwalin. When Dwalin saw him looking back he shook off Bilbo's arm, and the hobbit shot Thorin a speaking glance. "I'm exhausted," Bilbo griped. "We don't have stairways like this in the Shire."

Thorin sat down on the stairs. "Very well," he said. "It would be too much work to carry the hobbit all the way up, so we shall rest a moment."

Bilbo plunked down next to him. "It's not my fault that dwarves are better with stairs than hobbits," he said, loudly enough that the echoes covered up Dwalin's heavy breathing as everyone sat down in turn. "Who in the world would even _need_ to climb so many stairs, it's ridiculous."

They kept bickering for a good half hour, ranging over a wide variety of topics, until everyone seemed rested. "Are you willing to put forward some effort once more, Bilbo?" Thorin asked.

"Drags me halfway across the world, then makes me climb an infinite number of steps--Thorin, your leadership skills are truly unparalleled," said Bilbo as everyone gathered their gear once more.

"One needs _followers_ to lead, not pampered hobbits." As Thorin walked past Bilbo, he clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed briefly. He wasn't sure the hobbit would interpret the gesture rightly, but Bilbo looked back at him and winked before starting up the winding stairs again.

**: : :**

They emerged blinking into the sunlight at the top of the stairs. "More ruins, how wonderful," said Kíli.

"I've had enough ruins to last a lifetime already," agreed Fíli.

"These are different," said Bilbo.

He was right. The ruins of Himring were all of golden marble, veined with glimmering mica that caught the light and refracted it. Even broken and worn by time, the very lines of the ruins were different from either Fornost or Annúminas, with a strange grace that haunted the eye. _These walls witnessed great deeds, and beings beyond our ken_ , Thorin thought, and a shiver ran down his back. He shook it off impatiently.

"We shall find a place to set up camp," he said. "There must be a spring, the source of the waterfall. Let us locate it and make our base of operations there."

The island was nearly circular, what used to be the flat top of a great mountain fortress. The sound of the sea whispered all around them, an endless murmur, and the wind moved in the ivy. They found the spring, bubbling a stream of cold, clear water from a cleft in the rock, in the ruins of a tiled square. Thorin put his pack down on the broken mosaic on the ground, bright tiles fragmented into meaninglessness. "Here," he said.

They started a small fire and set up camp. "Tomorrow we shall start to search the island." Thorin sketched out a circle in the dust with Deathless's scabbard, divided it into six sections. "A different section each day."

"But...what are we looking for?" asked Fíli.

Thorin tapped the tiles with his scabbard. "An artifact of power."

"That's great," said Kíli. "That narrows it down a lot."

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment. "Here's what we have so far," he said, and recited carefully:

" _When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn_  
 _And shadows form within the gilded heart_  
 _Then shall the fevered mind no longer burn_  
 _And Durin's Scourge shall finally depart._

_To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane_  
 _Requires idle love in sweet repose;_  
 _A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain_  
 _Is like a blossom that unblighted grows._ "

He broke off. "Those seem to be the first two verses of this section of the poem. Then the text is corrupted for an unknown number of verses, but we have a phrase: 'In lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves,' and two words: 'emerald' and 'alabaster.' So that's basically what we have to go on."

"What about that last verse?" asked Bilbo. "Wasn't there another?"

"Oh, yes," said Thorin, "The summary." He took a breath and rattled off quickly:

" _And when at last you see your treasure true,_  
 _If sacrifice and love can fill your soul,_  
 _The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you_  
 _And clarity of vision make you whole._ "

"That isn't much to go on," Kíli said dubiously.

"It's all we have," said Thorin. "We shall search until our rations run low. If we can't find anything by then, we will admit defeat and move on." _To Mahal knows where,_ he did not add out loud. His mad father was ruling Erebor and time was running out. It had to be here. 

Their camp that night was subdued, with no singing or joking. Starlight mingled with firelight to cast strange shadows around the ruins, and Thorin was oppressively aware of the millennia that hung over the island. 

_{"Teach more Khuzdul?"}_ Bilbo said in that tongue, and Thorin realized that he'd been staring in silence at the shattered mosaic below them. _{"Learn more is good."}_

Thorin couldn't help but smile at Bilbo's earnest but flawed grammar. "Very well," he said. 

So they spent the evening going through the names for the colors, each gem-like hue a talisman against the dark. The crisp syllables of Khuzdul echoed strangely off the fluting ruins, and the stars looked down incuriously upon the dwarf and hobbit talking amongst the crumbling elvish glory.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While exploring the elvish ruins of Himring, Bilbo finds something interesting.

"But it has emeralds," said Kíli plaintively, lifting the diadem so the gems winked in the torchlight.

"That's the only way it connects to the verse," Thorin countered. "Look, it's even made of silver. The poem most definitely points to gold, tarnished gold."

"We're looking for something that connects the key words of the poem more," said Balin to the crestfallen Kíli. "Look for gilded hearts, perhaps engraved with flowers? Hearts seem to be a theme."

Bilbo was going through a cabinet filled with tangled necklaces of every color and shape. Himring was full of rooms heaped high with treasure--armor and weapons, jewels and cups and cunning boxes. "Here's a gold heart," he said, coming over to hand it to Thorin. 

Thorin squinted at it. "The workmanship is on the crude side to be an item of power, but I shall put it aside to consider later. Put that back, Kíli," he added, raising his voice.

Kíli stopped in the act of slipping the diadem into his bag and frowned. "But it's so pretty," he said. "It seems a shame to leave such beautiful craftsmanship here where no one will ever see it."

Thorin made a growling noise in his throat. "We are not grave-robbers or vandals," he said. "We seek an artifact that will save a kingdom. Everything else we leave as we found it."

"Besides, laddie, who knows what elvish curses may lurk on such items?" Balin said.

"Aye, maybe something that will make your fingers fall off," Dwalin rumbled. "Or perhaps your--" He roared with laughter as Kíli dropped the diadem like a poisonous snake.

"Well, I'm taking a break to eat," Bilbo said, unwrapping a block of rations and taking a nibble with a discouraged sigh. Fishing was impossible from the sheer, high cliffs, and there was no game, so rations it was.

"I miss your meals," said Fíli, sitting down next to him and unwrapping his own rations.

"I do too," said Bilbo.

"We are not here to indulge in exquisite cookery, we are here to search for a cure for my King," Thorin said.

Bilbo almost choked on his rations. "Did you just say my cooking was exquisite?"

"I said no such thing!" Thorin cast his eyes upward. "Though I suppose one could _infer_ that from what I said, yes." He cleared his throat. "I will admit your meals are...certainly better than rations. But that is beside the point."

He turned back to the chest he was searching and Bilbo tried to school his expression to impassivity, but from the way Fíli elbowed him and grinned he was afraid he looked excessively pleased. He wasn't good at impassivity, he thought grouchily. 

But then, he'd never really needed it before meeting Thorin.

**: : :**

Their rations were running low. Balin said there were only two more days' worth, and Thorin was becoming increasingly gloomy. To make things worse, it had started raining--a cold, soaking rain that drove their camp indoors and made everyone snappish. When even Kíli and Fíli started squabbling, Bilbo excused himself and began to wander aimlessly through the halls of Himring, letting his feet take him where they would.

The marble walls gleamed with threads of gold as he walked past, like eldritch eyes glinting at him. He could almost swear he could hear faint music, a lament played on instruments no hobbit had ever heard.

Stopping at random in front of a vast mahogany door with a sigil like a star carved into it, he pushed it open and went inside.

He found himself in what seemed a study of some sort: a stone desk sat near a window that must have once looked out over the war-torn fields of Beleriand and now showed only the empty grey sea stretching to the west. Cracked and brittle quills and dried ink bottles lay scattered on the desk. A marble pedestal rose in front of the window, twined now with ivy that crept in through the ruined opening. 

There was something on top of the pedestal.

It was too high for a hobbit to see easily; frowning, Bilbo dragged a stone stool over to stand on. Once he was high enough, he could see on the top of the pedestal a convex hemisphere of glass, set into a gemmed metal band. Bilbo looked through the glass and blinked in surprise--it was a magnifying glass, as clear and pure as a dewdrop. Underneath it was a slip of beaten gold with tiny elvish letters etched on it, made large by the glass. Bilbo looked at the looping runes gleaming in the dimness of the room, quiet except for the motion of the lonely wind in the ivy. 

Then he lifted the heavy glass and the slip of gold and left the study.

Thorin was angrily explaining that the south halls seemed a more likely place to search, despite being more open to the elements than the north. He broke off when Bilbo came in. "And where have you wandered off to?"

"I found a study of some sort," said Bilbo. He described the sigil on the door, and Thorin stood up, frowning intently. 

"That is the seal of the House of Fëanor," he said. "And thus of his son Maedhros, lord of this stronghold."

"I found this there, on a pedestal," Bilbo said, handing him the strip of gold. "I couldn't read it all, but one of the words looked familiar. Isn't it the elvish word for 'heart'?"

Thorin frowned. "Your eyes must be sharp indeed," he said, "To read such fine script."

"Oh," said Bilbo, "There was a magnifying glass that came with it." He fished it out of his bag, handing it over to Thorin. "You can see it clearly if you use that."

As the other dwarves gathered around, Thorin put the slip of gold on a table and placed the magnifying glass on it. "You're right," he murmured, surprised. "This does make it...clear..."

His voice trailed off and his focus shifted from the golden poem to the glass itself: the circle of perfect crystal set into a ring of metal tarnished with age, but still gleaming golden, ringed with smooth polished stones of green and milky white. Thorin touched the stones with a finger and Bilbo realized it was shaking almost imperceptibly. "Bilbo," he whispered, "Do you know what these stones are?"

"Well, no." said Bilbo, "I'm not exactly an expert on gems..."

"They're emeralds," said Fíli.

"And alabaster," breathed Kíli.

"You mean...like in the poem?"

Balin and Dwalin crowded closer to look at it. "It's made of a gold alloy," said Balin. 

"And it's tarnished with age," Dwalin said.

Everyone looked at Thorin.

"' _And when at last you see your treasure true,_ '" Thorin said in a low voice. "' _The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you, and clarity of vision make you whole.'_ This--" He broke off, gazing at the glass. "Could it be?" he whispered, almost to himself.

"Thorin," said Dwalin warningly, "Let's not jump to conclusions. It's a pretty bauble, but it's _elvish_ , lad. I assumed it would be an artifact of our own people, what do elves know of--"

"--But the original poem is by an elf," said Thorin. "Written at a time when relations were better between our people." He looked at Dwalin and Bilbo saw hope kindling in his face. "Dwalin, old friend--" He broke off and looked at Bilbo with a smile of almost startling beauty. "I believe the halfling has found our cure."

Without warning he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Bilbo, pulling him into an embrace. Startled, Bilbo almost pulled away, but then stopped and made himself relax into the hug. It felt...good, encircled by Thorin's arms. Bilbo could smell leather and salt; he closed his eyes and put his arms around Thorin in turn without thinking.

"It was a lucky day indeed when you chose to come with us, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin breathed. Bilbo could feel his heart pounding against him. Or was it Bilbo's heart? He was no longer certain. 

"I think--" Bilbo's voice sounded rather breathless in his own ears, although Thorin wasn't holding him _that_ tightly, "--You know, I think this would be an excellent time for some butterscotch biscuits."

Thorin released him to look down at him curiously, and Bilbo chuckled and went to his pack. "See?" He pulled out the little package of biscuits. "I was saving them for a celebration, and this seems like a good time, doesn't it?" He touched the lemon drops and the viola tea lightly, reassuring himself that they were still there. "You'll like these," he said, handing the package to Thorin.

Thorin took the biscuits as if accepting a great homage, inclining his head gravely. "You honor us with your butterscotch biscuits, Master Halfling," he said, his tone caught between laughing and serious. Unwrapping the paper, he solemnly handed one out to each dwarf, giving two to Bilbo. 

"Oh," murmured Kíli as he took a bite of his. "I can see why you were saving these." 

For a moment there was nothing but reverent silence as the biscuits were consumed. Thorin was smiling as he looked at Bilbo, and Bilbo found himself feeling strangely awkward under that deep gaze. He smiled back and nibbled on his biscuits, feeling content and nervous at once, somehow.

Then Thorin brushed off his hands and pulled his map from his bag, unfurling it across the table. "Time is short," he said, "So here is what we shall do." He put his finger on Himring, in the northwest corner of the map. Far to the east Bilbo could see Erebor, with the ridge of the Misty Mountains and the vast forest of Mirkwood between them. "Winter is fast closing in. But if we hurry, we can pass through the Rift of Nûrz Gashu, here in the north in the shadow of Mount Gundabad." His finger stabbed at the northernmost edge of the Misty Mountains. "Then we can skirt Mirkwood altogether, traveling along its northern edge, and so to Erebor." He smiled as his finger came to rest on the Lonely Mountain. "To home once more."

"It will be a hard ride across the northern plains, Thorin," said Balin.

"A hard and a dangerous one," added Dwalin. "The orcs of Angmar and Gundabad do not remember us fondly, and Bolg has sworn to hunt us down."

Fíli and Kíli exchanged uneasy glances. "Why don't we go back the way we came, Uncle Thorin?" Fíli asked.

Thorin snorted. "And pass right by Mithlond once more? After taking an artifact of power from one of their ancient fortresses? Be assured that the elves are aware we are here already and hope to accost us as soon as we land on the mainland once more, and we will be hard-pressed to avoid them."

"I don't...I don't believe the elves would harm us," Bilbo said, his voice wavering slightly.

"Have you ever met an elf, Bilbo?" When Bilbo shook his head, Thorin's eyes narrowed. "They have memories that stretch beyond our ken, and they can be fell and dangerous foes." He touched the glass, running his finger along the polished gems. "But even if they held us in no malice, it would cost us dear to encounter them. It is certain they would insist on having some kind of meeting to discuss the implications of this artifact; the history of Himring would have to be recited and the various conflicting prophecies about this glass discussed at length. There would be a great deal of interminable poetry and melancholy song, and we would lose _weeks_ of time while my grandfather lies helpless, perhaps dying. The Misty Mountains will soon be locked in snow, and we have no time to waste." He nodded. "We break camp in the morning for the northern plains and Erebor."

"Wait," said Bilbo. "Wait just a second." All the dwarves turned to look at him. "You said we'd go back to the Shire after this." His voice cracked and he swallowed hard. "You didn't say anything about--about orcs and Angmar and mountain passes and Mirkwoods."

Thorin looked at him; under the dark beard Bilbo saw his jaw set. "Time is too precious to waste, Bilbo," he said. "If we detour south we may not be able to reach Erebor until the spring. The fate of its King and its people rests in my hands, and I cannot take the time to return you to your home." For a moment the flint in his eyes softened. "Truly, I am sorry."

"But that's--" Bilbo blinked at him in horror. "You're saying I have no choice but to go with you?"

"If you wish, we can leave you with the fisherman from whom we borrowed the boat. Perhaps the elves will--"

"--and perhaps they won't, and I'll be stranded in some forsaken corner of the world for the rest of my _life_!"

Dwalin stepped forward. "Thorin, maybe I can escort--"

Thorin cut him off with a swift gesture of his hand. "I need you by my side. All of you. I need your strong arm. I need my best counselor, and I need my heirs." He looked at Bilbo, his expression caught strangely between commanding and pleading. "And I need your understanding, Bilbo."

"You don't have it!" cried Bilbo. "I'm a hobbit, I'm not a dwarf--"

"--You're an honorary dwarf," Fíli pointed out helpfully, but Bilbo just glared at him.

"I don't want to be! I wish I'd never followed you, I wish I'd never learned Khuzdul, and I--and I wish I'd never shared my butterscotch biscuits with you!" he finished in a rage. He turned and stomped out into the soaking rain to seek shelter alone, ignoring Kíli's voice calling after him, and sat through the night in bitter silence , missing his comfortable warm bed and cheerful fireplace in Bag End, and thinking ill indeed of dwarves in general, and of Prince Thorin of Erebor in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very made a beautiful [manip](http://verit.tumblr.com/post/58808580760/clarity-of-vision-by-mithen) for this series, wow...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo endures a hard ride across the icy northern plains of Middle Earth, and the party meets an unexpected ally.

The fortnight that followed their leaving Himring was the worst of Bilbo's life so far. Looking back later, he would remember only a blur of exhaustion, shot through with fragments of vivid detail: the sweat flecking Daffodil's neck as she ran far past her endurance, the cold air like a knife in his lungs, the song of wolves in the night. 

There was no time or energy to cook, and they lived off foraged food and the last of the rations, and were always hungry. They rode endlessly through the days, with little conversation and less rest. Bilbo huddled in his jumper and blankets at night, speaking only in monosyllables, and even Fíli and Kíli soon left him alone. Thorin's iron will drove them on like a scourge, his eyes fixed always to the east. There was a bleak beauty to the far north, with its fields of golden grass and the black hills rising always to their left, but Bilbo was not inclined to appreciate it.

One morning there was snow in the air, a fine haze of icy crystals, and Thorin cursed low and steadily under his breath as they rode through it, clouds of powdery white scudding across the steppes and stinging their faces.

The Misty Mountains slowly came into view, impossibly distant to the east, at first nothing but blurred outlines against the sky that could be mistaken for clouds. The mountains seemed to hang on the edge of the world forever, and all their riding seemed to bring them no closer. Bilbo came to hate the vast empty plains, with the sky an endless bowl overhead and nothingness stretching out toward the horizon. 

And then came the day that the plains were not empty.

Balin spotted them first, specks of black to the north, swarming on the hills like ants. "Orcs," he said like a curse under his breath. 

Thorin wheeled his pony around and stared north. "Gath Forthnir is a day's ride to the east," he said. "If they haven't seen us, perhaps--" 

A horn rang out in the distance, braying and ugly, and Thorin took a deep breath. He looked at each of his party in turn, and last at Bilbo, clinging grimly to his little pony. "We ride," he said.

With the orcs on their heels, they rode hard for the east and the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The grassy land under their ponies' hooves shifted to flinty stone as the land rose up, and soon they were galloping through winding, twisting canyons and valleys that echoed with the sound of warg-howls and the clash of orcish arms. Bilbo shuddered as the pursuing orcs struck up some triumphant hunting song in a language that sounded soaked with blood and hate, and clung to Daffodil's back like a stubborn burr, feeling her sides heaving with exhaustion.

Thorin's eyes scanned the rocky cliffs hemming them in as if searching for something; dazed with weariness and fear, Bilbo still saw a small smile cross his face. Then he wheeled his pony around. "We make our stand here!" he called, his voice bouncing off the stone. "Kíli!"

Kíli nodded and unshouldered his bow, his face grim.

Thorin unsheathed Deathless as his pony neighed defiance at the oncoming howls. "Let us show them our mettle!"

Bilbo felt shameful tears rising in his eyes. To die so far from home, unmourned and forgotten! But he dashed them away and unsheathed his own knife, raising it in his shaking hands. "Come and get us!" he yelled as the first orcs came around the corner on their slavering wargs. 

Then he added at the top of his lungs in Khuzdul: " _{Suckers of goblin dick!}"_

Thorin's head whipped around and he stared at Bilbo, and then he began to laugh, a delighted roar that rang from the canyon walls.

He was still laughing when the first arrows rained down from above on the charging horde, a hail of death that pierced eyes and throats and left neither orc nor warg standing.

Thorin's laugh had died down to a chuckle when a figure slid down the canyon wall, leaping from rock to rock before alighting in front of the party and dropping into a graceful bow. Then she straightened, tossing back a mass of golden hair, and Bilbo realized it was a woman in leather armor, smiling up at Thorin.

"Thorin!" she called. "Once again I see you have need of the Rangers to save your reckless hide!"

"My lady," said Thorin, bowing in turn from the back of his pony. "Once again I see you have denied us dwarves our rightful glory in battle."

"Oh, bah," she said. "You always hog all the glory, leave a little for the rest of us." Her gaze went past Thorin to the rest of the party, and her grin grew curious. "Welcome, all of you, to Gath Forthnir," she said. "Master Balin and Master Dwalin I remember well, but you bring new companions with you," she said, glancing at Thorin. She bowed again to the rest of them. "I am Stefa of the Rangers."

"Stefa, these are my nephews, Fíli and Kíli," said Thorin. Fíli and Kíli muttered something that sounded like "At your service," looking suddenly shy. "And this is Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," he said, gesturing at Bilbo.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Stefa said. She raised her voice, looking up at the cliff-tops with a salute. "Good work, Rangers! Let us return to Gath Forthnir and celebrate our victory!"

"Will there--" Bilbo's voice faltered; everyone looked at him and he swallowed and tried again, "--will there be food?"

**: : :**

There was food indeed in the hidden caves of Gath Forthnir: venison and duck and roasted potatoes and ale, and all of them ate and were satisfied, although Thorin privately thought the cooking was not as good as Bilbo's. But that was a thought his mind shied away from, and he pushed the happy memories of their travels on the coast resolutely away. That time was gone forever. "Where is Laerdan?" he asked Stefa quietly as Dwalin started another drinking song with his old comrades. "I have much I need to discuss with him."

"Laerdan left yesterday on urgent business," Stefa said. "He told us no more than that, but said he hoped to be back within a day."

"We will need re-provisioning. We hope to pass through the Rift of Nûrz Gashu and so to Erebor," said Thorin.

Stefa's easy smile fell away. "The Rift? My friend, that is impossible."

"What?" The singing around the table faltered and fell silent as Thorin's voice sharpened. "But we must cross the Misty Mountains before they are closed with winter."

"There is fresh activity in Gundabad," Stefa said, "and the Rift crawls with Bolg's orcs."

"Did they know of our coming?" murmured Balin.

"I think not. It has been so for weeks," Stefa said, shaking her head. "I believe it is a conflict within the orc factions, perhaps a quarrel between Bolg and his father Azog, who holds the ancient halls of Moria."

"Fathers and sons," Dwalin said with a bleak chuckle, cut off when Thorin looked at him.

"You don't understand," Thorin said. Urgency clawed at him like vertigo: to have come so far, to have pushed himself and his people so brutally, only to be thwarted! He did not look at Bilbo, sitting silent on the far end of the table, but when he considered that he might have dragged the halfling to the wastes and danger of Angmar for naught... "We _must_ pass." 

"And you do not understand that it would be suicide," Stefa said, steel glinting through the easy grace of her voice. "Laerdan will grant you neither provisions nor support if you insist on throwing away your lives in a mad venture." 

"We have no other option," Thorin said.

"There is always another option," said a voice at the door. Thorin turned to see Laerdan, the leader of the Rangers of Gath Forthnir, standing in the doorway. And beside him--

" _Tharkûn_ ," Thorin growled at the sight of the old wizard in his grey robes and pointed hat.

"Prince Thorin of Erebor," said the wizard known as Gandalf the Grey, stepping forward. "Our paths cross once more."

"I am Prince no longer, nor of Erebor, as you well know," Thorin said.

"Nonsense," said Gandalf. "No earthly power can strip those from you." He frowned, his bushy white brows knitting. "But what are you doing here in the wilds of Angmar? The last I heard of your travels you were far to the south, on the coast."

Thorin did not particularly like the implication that Gandalf was keeping track of his movements. "We seek to return to Erebor, passing through the Misty Mountains by the Rift of Nûrz Gashu."

"Stefa speaks the truth," said Laerdan, stepping forward. "You would be throwing your life away for nothing."

Thorin opened his mouth to argue, but he was cut off by the sound of Bilbo Baggins' voice: "Gandalf the Grey? Is--is that you?"

Gandalf's eyes went to the foot of the table, and they widened: for a moment the old wizard looked surprised in a way Thorin had never seen. "Good heavens," he said, "Bilbo Baggins? Of the Shire? What in the name of mercy are you doing here?"

"Wait," said Thorin. "You know each other?"

"Well, certainly," said Bilbo, sounding bewildered. "Gandalf is--well, he makes lovely fireworks. He comes to the Shire now and then, but I haven't seen him since I was a lad."

Gandalf looked at Thorin. "Is this hobbit traveling with you?"

"It's...a long story," said Thorin.

"Well," Gandalf said. "I have time to hear it." He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "And I suggest you tell me everything."

**: : :**

Laerdan's council room was quieter than the main hall: only Thorin's party, Gandalf, and Laerdan himself sat around a round table scattered with maps. Thorin was explaining his recent research to Gandalf; under cover of the conversation, Bilbo slipped closer to Laerdan. 

"Excuse me, sir," he murmured, "But I was wondering...are you an elf?"

Laerdan bent a polite and slightly amused gaze upon the hobbit. "I am indeed, Mr. Baggins."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "Oh my. I'm sorry to be rude, it's just...I've never met an elf before."

"And I have never met a hobbit," said Laerdan. "It is a pleasure."

Bilbo felt himself blushing. There was something about the timeless eyes and fluid grace of the elf that made him feel tongue-tied. "Hobbits are nothing special," he muttered. "But an elf! My goodness."

Laerdan's eyes creased in a smile. "I suspect you underestimate yourself, Mr. Baggins."

"--And you found something in Himring," Gandalf was saying as Laerdan turned away, leaving Bilbo flustered and speechless. Thorin shared a glance with Balin and Dwalin. "For heaven's sake," snapped Gandalf. "Rock-headed dwarves and your secrets. You would do well to be more forthcoming."

Reluctantly, Thorin reached into his pack and drew out the glass. He placed it on the table, where its curved crystal seemed to gather and focus the golden torchlight. "I believe this item holds the key to curing King Thrór."

"You took this from Himring?" Laerdan asked, his eyes on the glass.

Thorin's chin went up. "I took nothing but this and the poem that came with it."

"Peace, Thorin," Laerdan said. "Not all elves are so enamoured of our treasure that we would withhold aid from those in need. May I see the poem as well?"

Thorin handed him the slip of gold, and Laerdan placed it under the glass, frowning. "There is nothing in this poem about dragons or illness. It is an ode to friendship and the unbreakable bonds between comrades."

"We believe the glass is the key, that perhaps if my grandfather were to gaze through it at the gold that obsesses his soul, he would be healed. Have you ever seen either the glass or the poem before?"

"I have not," Laerdan said. "Himring was lost long before my birth." 

Gandalf took the glass and squinted at it. "It was crafted before I arrived in Middle Earth," he said slowly, placing it back on the table. "I cannot perceive its purpose."

"I still have my doubts it serves any purpose beyond making small items appear large," grumbled Dwalin, but fell silent when Thorin looked at him.

"But it fits the prophecy," Thorin said eagerly. "It may well be what I need to restore my grandfather to health."

"It...may be," said Gandalf.

Thorin leaned across the table. "And so you understand that I _must_ return to Erebor as quickly as possible! Even putting aside my personal feelings, the current instability of Erebor can bode no good for the peace and safety of Middle Earth."

"Your artifact will heal no one if it is lost to Bolg's orcs," said Laerdan. "As you surely would be if you attempted the Rift."

Thorin slammed his fists on the table; the glass jumped and came to rest once more. "There must be a way!"

"I believe I have an...alternate plan for you," said Gandalf slowly. "You will lose some time, traveling south across the Ettenmoors. But if you were to attempt the High Pass you could perhaps cross the Misty Mountains before the winter closes in."

"We would still lose time in the depths of Mirkwood," Thorin said, but his eyes were thoughtful.

"Better than losing an entire winter trapped on the western side of the mountains," Gandalf said. "As it so happens," he added, "I am traveling south soon as well, to Imladris. I could travel with you for a time."

Dwalin made a disgusted noise. "Elves," he said. But Thorin raised his head and met Gandalf's eyes.

"Will you vouch for us with the elves of Rivendell and stay them from delaying our travels?"

Gandalf inclined his head. "If it is within my power."

"Then we shall travel with you to Rivendell," said Thorin. 

"But--but _why_ , Thorin?" Dwalin sputtered.

Balin nodded. "Risking the elves could be--"

Thorin cut him off with a sweep of his hand. "I have my reasons," he said curtly. Then his eyes softened. "Elrond of Rivendell is one of the few beings in Middle Earth who might know of the properties of this glass and could confirm its power," he said. "If Gandalf will support us, we shall take the risk."

"I shall leave whenever you are ready," said Gandalf.

"Then we shall leave tomorrow morning," Thorin said.

"But _Uncle_ \--" Kíli and Fíli started and broke off in unison, as if realizing it was pointless to argue with him.

Dwalin cuffed Fíli on the shoulder. "She's a fine lass, boy, but there's no time for such things now."

Fíli spluttered something incoherent and Kíli snickered until his brother hit him on the head.

Sighing slightly to himself, Bilbo slipped off to re-pack his bags.

**: : :**

"Frying pan, tinderbox, lemon drops, viola tea," Bilbo muttered to himself. On the other side of the cave, Fíli was sparring with Stefa--both with knives and with words. Kíli was watching as he fletched arrows, occasionally chiming in when Stefa got a particularly good hit (verbal or otherwise) on his brother. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Dwalin and Balin were going over maps with Laerdan and some of the other Rangers, frowning. Bilbo noticed a hole in the elbow of his oatmeal-colored jumper and _tsked_ , getting out his sewing kit and threading the needle.

"Bilbo," called Balin, "Could you go find Thorin or Gandalf and tell them we need their thoughts on the best path across the Ettenmoors?"

Bilbo was not at all certain he wanted to deal with either princes or wizards right now, but he put down his needle and ventured out into the winding caves of Gath Forthnir in search of them.

The passages looped around an underground pond that cast odd rippling echoes everywhere; Bilbo skirted it carefully, admiring the colorful stalactites that cascaded into the pond like a waterfall.

As he moved deeper into the caves, the sound of water coalesced into the voices of Thorin and Gandalf in discussion. Bilbo moved toward them.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but when he heard his own name spoken he stopped suddenly, realizing with some embarrassment that he had been "sneaking" again without meaning to.

"I must say," Gandalf's voice said from around a corner, "That I was surprised to find you traveling with Bilbo Baggins. Surprised and pleased."

"What do you mean?" Thorin's voice was wary.

"I know him from when he was a boy," Gandalf said, "And when I set eyes on him again today--it is the greatest luck that you have come across him, I believe. For I have an intuition, a premonition I might almost call it, that Bilbo Baggins is crucial to the success of your mission. Having him in your party, as unassuming as he is, might--"

"--I will not have him in my party," said Thorin.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said I will not." Thorin's voice was like iron. 

"Is he such a trial, then?" Gandalf sounded puzzled; hidden around the corner Bilbo felt a sharp pain and realized he was biting his own lip hard enough to hurt, and that his hands were clenched. "He seems a merry soul and a pleasant enough traveling companion."

Bilbo heard Thorin take a deep breath. "You do not understand, Tharkûn. Bilbo Baggins is not with us of his own free will. It is I who have forced him to travel with us, through terrible hardships and danger. He has borne it all bravely--more bravely than I would have imagined possible. He rode across the wastes of the north with no murmur of complaint and still yelled defiance in the very face of death. He owes us--he owes _me_ \--nothing, and I have no right to ask anything more of him. And so, when we reach Rivendell, you will use your influence with the Lord of Rivendell to secure him safe escort back to the Shire."

"Thorin." Gandalf's voice was grave. "I tell you that if Bilbo Baggins is not with you, you will fail."

"I have failed _him_ enough already!" Thorin's voice sounded raw with some emotion Bilbo couldn't place. "I will not drag him into further danger on the vague say-so of some wizard. He deserves to be safe. He deserves to go home. Promise me that you will convince Elrond to get him safely back where he belongs."

There was a long silence, and Bilbo heard the wizard sigh. "Very well, Thorin," Gandalf said. "I will do as you ask. But I feel you are making a mistake."

"It will not be the first," Thorin said, his voice bleak, and Bilbo realized with horror that the conversation was drawing to a close and at any moment they were going to come around the corner. He beat a hasty retreat, then began to walk back toward them, this time whistling a loud and cheery Shire festival song. Their voices broke off and he called their names, coming around the corner.

"Oh! You're both here, together," he said. "How convenient. Dwalin is looking for both of you."

Thorin brushed by him without a word; Gandalf shot him a sharp glance with his eyes narrowed, but swept past him as well.

Bilbo stood for a time in the flickering darkness, frowning into the shadows. Slowly, his face cleared and he nodded to himself.

When he followed after Thorin and Gandalf, he was whistling to himself once more, but this time it was a travelling tune.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party leaves to travel south to Rivendell and somehow finds the road pleasant despite the weather.

"Farewell, dwarves! Farewell, Bilbo!" From a high promontory, Stefa waved goodbye as the party rode south beyond the boundaries of the Rangers' territory. "Farewell, Kíli! Farewell, Fíli!" She blew two kisses toward them, and Fíli blushed brilliant scarlet.

Thorin frowned at his nephew. "I hope you haven't left a broken heart behind you," he growled.

"Quite the opposite," chortled Kíli. "I believe he carries it with him." Fíli lobbed an apple at him and hit him in the head. "Ow!"

"Here now," said Bilbo, "Don't be wasting those apples. I was hoping to roast some with a little cinnamon tonight." 

Fíli and Kíli apologized profusely for their bad manners. "Tell us more," said Kíli, rubbing his hands gleefully. "What did the Rangers give you for provisions?"

"Well," Bilbo said, "They gave us some lovely lamb sausages and I think I can make some fennel sauce to go with them." 

Kíli and Fíli sighed with anticipation and Dwalin groaned out loud. "You torment us, Bilbo," he rumbled. "Can we not ride faster and camp earlier, Thorin?"

"We keep to the pace we decided," Thorin said.

"And Stefa slipped me a little vial of truffle oil," Bilbo added. "If we can find some wild carrots, that should be quite nice."

Thorin's stomach rumbled; he tightened his jaw and looked straight ahead, hoping no one had heard it. "Perhaps it cannot hurt to pick up the pace just a little," he said.

At his right side, Gandalf cast him an amused look. Thorin gave him a glare back. There may be no way across the mountains without Gandalf's help, but that did not mean he had to like it.

There was a humming sound behind him, and Thorin turned to see Bilbo absent-mindedly humming under his breath, almost smiling. When he saw Thorin looking at him, he ducked his head and looked away, the tune faltering.

"What is that song?" Thorin asked.

"Oh, just a little something I'm working on," Bilbo said. "A nonsense ditty to pass the time. I think I'll call it 'The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late.'"

"A rather unwieldy title," said Thorin, and Bilbo laughed.

"For a rather unwieldy song, I'm afraid! I cannot get the third verse to scan at all."

"Sing it for us, won't you?" coaxed Fíli.

"Maybe we can help!" added Kíli.

Bilbo looked torn between embarrassment and pride. "Well, here is what I have so far," he said. He took a quick breath and began to sing:

 _"There is an inn, a merry old inn_  
beneath an old grey hill,  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
One night to drink his fill..."

His clear light voice lifted against the craggy darkness of the Ettenmoors and seemed to change the very mood of the place from glowering to laughing. Soon all of the party were suggesting rhymes and turns to the story: Kíli came up with a tipsy cat and fiddle--"Like the ones Fíli and I play!"--and Balin added some silver spoons. Dwalin suggested a cow, and even Gandalf was nodding his head to the rhythm of the song, smiling.

Thorin watched Bilbo Baggins smile and sing and wondered what had happened to change his mood. Perhaps he was looking forward to seeing the elves of Rivendell. More likely it was the knowledge that there he would find safety and passage home to the Shire, that he could refuse to travel any further with this company of mad dwarves.

Thorin found he did not truly care what the reason was, for Bilbo's laughter was like sunshine that gilded all the darkness with delight, and he wished to hear it as often as possible before they parted.

**: : :**

The journey south across the moors was far from easy: there was no road, and the party often found itself having to backtrack away from some impassible bluff. The weather was generally foul--cloudy days were the best they encountered, and cold drizzle was more standard. One day they even had sleet pelting off their cloaks. But no matter how miserable their surroundings were, somehow the group's spirits stayed high, and laughter and song seemed easy to come by. Bilbo wondered if perhaps Gandalf might have made the difference--had the wizard cast some charm to keep everyone's mood buoyant? But then, not being hunted by orcs would probably be enough to improve anyone's mood, he reflected as he stirred a bubbling pot of pheasant stew with just a bit of ale added for flavor. He hummed under his breath to himself, turning over possible endings for "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon" and enjoying the fact that it wasn't currently raining or sleeting.

" _{ Ready-to-be-eaten food!}_ " he called out in Khuzdul to where Fíli and Kíli were sparring.

Thorin's head came up as Fíli and Kíli dropped their weapons and scrambled, and he frowned at Bilbo. 

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said, "But Gandalf is scouting ahead a little, so I thought it would be safe to use Khuzdul a bit. I know I'm not supposed to use it in front of outsiders, I assumed that was why you'd stopped teaching me. But I don't want to get rusty."

Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

"Oh, Gandalf is no outsider," said Balin as he held out his bowl for Bilbo to fill. "He is not always welcome, but he is never truly a stranger to any of the peoples of Middle Earth. He speaks Khuzdul as well as I do."

"I thought I was the only honorary dwarf," Bilbo said.

"Tharkûn is not an honorary anything," said Balin. "He is a wizard, and no dwarf ever taught him Khuzdul."

Bilbo glared at Thorin. "So you could have been teaching me more Khuzdul for the last week? Am I such a bad student? Did you grow tired of teaching me? Was it because I was having a hard time mastering the ablative case?"

Thorin put down his bowl with a thump. "If you'd stop peppering me with questions so a decent dwarf can hardly get a word in edgewise--" He broke off when he realized Bilbo had stopped speaking and was looking at him, and picked up again with notably less heat: "If you wish to learn a little more Khuzdul, I am happy to teach you. You are...a good student." Bilbo couldn't help grinning, and Thorin looked away from his face and cleared his throat. "Even if you are hopeless with the ablative case."

"Why would you need an entire way of expression to talk about motion away from something, it's absurd," Bilbo groused. "Can't we skip it and try something else?"

"No short cuts," Thorin said sternly. "Let's try it again from the beginning and make sure you remember the meagre progress you had managed."

"Balin, how do you say 'This dwarf is not an encouraging teacher' in Khuzdul? I want to memorize it."

Thorin huffed. "I shall teach you 'This hobbit is an ungrateful student' first, it is far more appropriate."

Gandalf the Grey, returning from a quick check of the terrain ahead, heard them arguing from far away, their words nearly drowned out by laughter from the rest of the party. He stopped for a moment to enjoy the sound, shaking his head, and then strode from the darkness toward the circle of homey light illuminating the moors.

**: : :**

"We should reach Rivendell by evening," Gandalf said a few days later as they mounted their ponies in a rare sunny morning, everything edged with hoarfrost.

Thorin nodded, ignoring the way his heart seemed to falter and fall at the news. He should be delighted to reach Rivendell, where perhaps more answers could be found; delighted to be one step closer to Erebor.

He should not feel that Gandalf's words robbed the very air of brightness.

They rode in silence for a time, Thorin picking at his pain like a ragged scar. Finally he decided that the best way to deal with it was to at last address it directly. _Tear it off and let it start to heal_ , he thought, although he had alarming doubts the metaphor would hold.

"I'm certain Bilbo will find the passage back from Rivendell to the Shire easy," he announced. "Gandalf has promised me that he will ask Elrond to provide an escort back West."

Beside him, Balin sighed heavily, and Kíli and Fíli shared a miserable look, but no one protested. That the parting was inevitable had been clear to all of them, after all.

Thorin cleared his throat. "I know my regrets mean nothing, Bilbo, but allow me to assure you that I do indeed regret the necessity of forcing you to come so far from your home. You shall, of course, be well-rewarded for your hardships, and shall always carry the gratitude of Erebor with you--"

 _"Well,"_ snorted Bilbo from behind him, indignantly. "If that doesn't just beat all." 

Thorin turned to look back at Bilbo, who was glaring at him. "What?" His voice sounded stupid in his own ears.

"Typical high-handed, arrogant dwarf," Bilbo said. "Making decisions for everyone without even checking with them, as if you know what's best for everyone in Middle Earth. Well let me tell you, _your majesty_ , not everyone likes having it just announced what they're going to do all the time. Some of us like to make our own choices." He flicked the reins and his pony tossed her head and picked up the pace until he rode abreast of Thorin.

"And...and your choice is?" Now his voice sounded stupidly hopeful, which was worse.

Bilbo looked straight ahead, his chin lifted. "Well, I thought that since I've come so far already, I should probably see it through," he said. "I mean, it would be a shame if I didn't find out what that bauble did for your grandfather, wouldn't it? After I found it for you and all." He flicked a quick glance at Thorin. "You haven't forgotten I was the one who found it, have you?"

"I...have not," Thorin said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fíli grinning like an idiot and resisted the urge to throw something at him.

"Then I should hope you would understand that you are in my debt, and it would be rude of you to ship me off like so much unwanted luggage."

"You are not--luggage," Thorin said.

"Indeed!" said Bilbo. "I ask you to keep that in mind and not attempt to send me packing again."

"He won't," said Balin, and was echoed by the other dwarves.

"I'd like to hear it from Thorin," said Bilbo. "In fact, I would like a formal promise from him on the matter."

Thorin glowered at him, but the hobbit still wasn't looking at him. He harrumphed, then said, "I swear to you on my sword and on my honor, Bilbo Baggins, that I will not send you home again. Unless you wish it," he added carefully.

Bilbo looked him in the eyes then, and smiled. "I don't think I will," he said.

Everyone was smiling, Thorin noticed with annoyance. The hobbit, his nephews, Balin and Dwalin, even that infernal wizard.

In fact, he realized, he was too: smiling as if happiness had pierced his heart like a golden spear.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives at Rivendell and is welcomed (if not warmly). Counsel is sought and received, and plans are made.

Thorin glanced at the elvish guards to his left and right and tried not to fidget. " _{I do not like this,}"_ Dwalin growled in Khuzdul beside him, and the guards exchanged a quick glance from their sharp eyes that Thorin tried not to notice.

The sound of falling water filled the hidden valley with a constant low susurration, a murmur at the edge of hearing. Golden leaves drifted by them, looping in lazy spirals to the ground. Beside him, Bilbo was silent: when they had entered the valley he had given one gasp of wonder, and since then had been rapt and wordless, his eyes wide as he looked around him.

Rivendell was beautiful indeed, but Thorin couldn't help but worry that he might have been unwise to come here. 

A figure in russet robes approached them, his bearing lordly under the circlet on his brow, and Thorin guessed his identity even before Gandalf stepped forward and inclined his head. "My Lord Elrond," he said. "Your hospitality does us honor."

Elrond glanced at the guards, and they bowed and strode off, leaving Thorin feeling slightly more at ease. "Mithrandir," he said. "You and your...guests...are welcome in Imladris."

"I travel with Thorin, son of Thráin, son of King Thrór of Erebor, and his party," said Gandalf.

Thorin met ageless eyes and bowed his head slightly. _"Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn,"_ he murmured, and had the satisfaction of watching those eyes widen at the Sindarin words.

"A star shines on our meeting indeed," replied Elrond. He looked at Gandalf. "I look forward to hearing how you came to be in the company of a dwarf who can speak our tongue."

"Before you hear his tale," said Gandalf. "I must ask your promise that you will not hinder the passage of Thorin and his party in any way."

Elrond's eyes narrowed. "A bold request to ask of me, wizard."

"I would not ask it if I did not feel that the fate of more than Erebor hinges upon this group," Gandalf said, and Thorin had to fight not to turn and look sharply at him.

Elrond looked at Gandalf's face for a long time. Then he nodded slowly. "I will do what is in my power to aid you," he said to Thorin. "For the sake of Mithrandir and the sake of your kind greeting."

"Not from any love of our people, I'll wager," said Dwalin from behind them.

To Thorin's surprise, Elrond smiled then, a flash of light across a solemn face. "True enough, Master Dwarf. Your honesty cleaves my diplomacy in twain. Yet come and be welcome for now." He clapped his hands. "Food and drink, rooms for our guests," he said to the elves who stepped up and bowed. "And perhaps a bath," he added, turning to escort them across the bridge into Rivendell.

_{"Is he saying we smell bad?"}_ Dwalin grumbled in Khuzdul, and Thorin heard Bilbo giggle helplessly.

Putting on his best regal demeanour, he resisted the urge to sniff his clothing and swept after Elrond.

**: : :**

Bilbo sank down in water up to his chin and his sigh of rapture sent small, silvery bubbles floating into the air. "Oh, this is heaven," he murmured. "And a real bed! I haven't had a real bed since Bree."

"Hey," said Kíli's voice from the other room, "You can't go in there, that's--"

An elf walked into the bathroom and Bilbo floundered, sending bubbles everywhere. With a polite, aloof nod, the elf picked up Bilbo's bundle of clothing, put a robe down on the chair, and exited again.

"They took all our clothes," Fíli said sheepishly when Bilbo emerged soon after, tying the sash on his robe and glaring about the room. He was wearing a marigold-yellow brocade robe; beside him, Kíli was in a silvery-gray silk.

"Well, I do hope they return them!" Bilbo said indignantly. "That's my second-best waistcoat!"

"At least they got the color of your robe right," said a voice behind him. "It would be a shame if they had given you purple instead of the _correct_ plum-colored."

Bilbo whirled to snap at Thorin and found himself staring instead. The elves had given him a robe of midnight-blue raw silk edged with silver, and where Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli looked like they were wearing--well, bathrobes, Thorin managed to hold himself as though he were in kingly vestments. That he managed to look dignified despite the fair amount of curling chest hair revealed by the neckline of the robe was an impressive feat, and almost certainly the reason Bilbo had a hard time finding his voice for a moment.

"I suppose it's...probably not my second-best any more, not after two months on the road, I mean," he stammered. "But it's my _only_ waistcoat out here, and so I'd really hate to lose it, I'm not sure the elves would understand how important it is to have a good waistcoat, they don't look like the waistcoat-loving type, do they?" He became dimly aware that he was babbling and Thorin was looking at him with one eyebrow raised quizzically, but before he could launch into an earnest discussion of single-breasted versus double-breasted waistcoats the door banged open and Dwalin and Balin stomped into the room in their own robes (sage green and maroon, respectively).

"Thorin, tell those... _elves_ to unhand our clothing!" demanded Dwalin.

"I do hope you didn't assault them," Thorin said, crossing his arms and tilting his head in mock-severity.

"It was a near thing," grumbled Balin. "I don't like it here, Thorin, I don't like it at all."

"It will not hurt us to rest a night, get some answers, and move on," Thorin said.

"Besides, the bath was _wonderful_ ," sighed Bilbo, and Thorin gave him a narrow-eyed look that made him blink.

There was a discreet tap at the door, and more elves arrived, bearing flagons and platters. At their head was a dark-haired elf who bowed deeply to them. "I am Lindir. Master Elrond bids you eat and drink and rest this eve, and he will speak with you tomorrow."

_"Le fael,"_ Thorin murmured, and then, perhaps hearing Dwalin grumbling behind him, added, "And when will our clothing be returned to us?"

"Ah," said Lindir. "We are working to clean and patch and...fumigate your raiment, and should have it back to you by morning before your audience with Master Elrond."

Thorin's smile went rather stiff, but he nodded politely and kept smiling. "Could you tell us where Gandalf is?"

"Master Gandalf is meeting with Master Elrond and--" He broke off. "That is to say, with Master Elrond this evening in private," Lindir said. The expression on his face forbid further prying into the affairs of wizards, and Thorin snapped his mouth shut.

"Arrogant beings, aren't they?" he muttered once the doors were closed once more.

"Their wine is acceptable, though," Dwalin said with a satisfied belch.

**: : :**

"I have heard of this dragon-sickness," Elrond said. "Though only rumors. I am saddened to hear that King Thrór bears its burden." 

"We are in haste to return to Erebor, in the hopes that this artifact will heal his mind." Thorin lifted the glass from his pack and gave it to Elrond, although Bilbo could see reluctance in his movements. 

Elrond held the glass to the morning sunlight coming in through the windows; it cast wavering reflections around the ornate walls. "Unless I miss my mark, this is the work of my great-great-uncle Fingon. But I have never seen it before this day." He set it down, frowning. "My brother and I were taken in as children and sheltered by Maedhros, the lord of Himring and oft the companion of Fingon. But he was forced to abandon that fortress long before our time with him." He put the little slip of gold under the glass and gazed at it. "A pretty poem. I wonder if Fingon composed it as well." 

He looked at the tall, golden-haired elf standing next to him and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Glorfindel? You are older than I."

Glorfindel shook his head. "I dwelt in Gondolin and never came to Himring," he murmured. "I have never seen this glass." He frowned slightly. "I doubt its primary purpose was to heal dwarves, but...it could have been made to counter the effects of dragons' foul enchantments in general." He touched the glass, long fingers brushing the curve of light. "The lady Galadriel, in Lothlórien, would perhaps be better able to tell you. Maedhros and Fingon were her cousins, after all."

"We do not have time to venture so far south," Thorin said impatiently, "and wait on the caprice of a being nearly as old as the world itself."

"I would remind you that the Lady of Lórien is the grandmother of my children," Elrond said, his voice cool, "And ask you to show her more respect."

Bilbo found himself stepping backward a little further into his corner, hoping no one would notice him and wondering why in the world he was here in Elrond's library at all. Time seemed unutterably vast when Elrond spoke of it, and the world larger than Bilbo had ever imagined. Against his will, he heard again Gandalf's voice in his memory, saying that Thorin's quest would never succeed without him. Bilbo didn't put much stock in that--he had come along mainly because, well, he wasn't sure why, exactly. But not because of some hunch on an old wizard's part. Yet seeing Elrond bow to him, seeing the Master of Imladris take seriously his words that the fate of Middle Earth might rest upon this party--and wait, did that mean the fate of Middle Earth might rest on _Bilbo?_

Bilbo shook his head vigorously to get rid of the unwelcome thought. Impossible! He was just Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, nothing special at all. He brushed his hand across the brocade of his waistcoat--now cleaned and carefully mended--and remembered how self-important he had been back in Bree, an eternity ago. How small the world had been then! How comfortable and cozy! Why had he ever left it, and why wasn't he going back?

"I would differ with you on your translation of the second verse, Master Thorin," Elrond was saying. 

Thorin looked up at the elf, his changeable blue-green eyes narrowed. 

Elrond frowned at the notebook and recited:

_"To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane_  
Requires idle love in sweet repose;  
A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain  
Is like a blossom that unblighted grows." 

He tapped the paper lightly. "You have the heart as the subject of the third line-- _the heart that's eased from anguish and from pain_ \--but 'heart' actually modifies the true subject of the line, the ease. It's more the ease of the heart that is like a blossom."

Thorin looked like he wanted to argue with Elrond, then patently swallowed his irritation. "I shall keep that in mind," he muttered.

Elrond started expounding on the different nuances of the phrase Thorin had translated as "gentle darkness" from the Sindarin, and soon Fíli and Kíli were shifting their feet and looking at each other as if resisting the temptation to bolt from the room. Thorin cast them a stern glance and they subsided. Then his gaze went to Bilbo, standing in his corner, and there was a hint of a smile on his bearded lips. _Yet I don't really blame them,_ that smile said, and Bilbo had to stifle an unseemly giggle.

Thorin's eyes--deep as the sea, eyes that could call you like a song--crinkled at the corners before he looked away, and for a vertiginous moment Bilbo knew perfectly well why he wasn't returning to the Shire.

"If you will forgive me, Prince Thorin," said Glorfindel as Elrond finished up his discussion of how "darkness" could also mean "shadow" or "clouds." "There is also a shift in language in the last verse that your translation does not capture. The meter in Sindarin shifts subtly, a traditional method of indicating an addition or continuation on a theme. I believe that hints at there being two different methods of cure: one based on an item or artifact, and one more...spiritual in nature."

"Spiritual," Thorin echoed, sounding unconvinced.

"Is that the verse about sacrifice and love filling the soul?" Kíli asked.

"How nice," said Thorin. "All we need to do is set up a parade of comely dwarf-women and hope my aged grandfather falls in love with one of them."

"That sounds rather more...carnal than spiritual," Glorfindel said, frowning as though he weren't sure if Thorin were jesting with him.

"Both are equally impractical," said Thorin. "I shall rely on what I can hold in my hands, thank you. Dragons have never struck me as likely to be impressed by either love or sacrifice."

At his words, Lindir spoke up from the corner where he had been watching quietly: "Perhaps this evening we could recite the Lay of the Children of Hurin. It is a long and sorrowful tale," he said, "Of the fell power of a dragon over the mind of mortals, and the heavy weight of fate. Few indeed are the non-elves who have heard the Lay, but we are fortunate to have a bard who can recite all three hundred and seventy-two stanzas."

Bilbo had to clap a hand over his mouth at Balin and Dwalin's expressions, and Thorin shot Gandalf an eloquent look.

"It would be an honor indeed to hear such an epic tale from an elvish bard," Gandalf said. "But as Thorin has told you, haste is of the essence for our party. It would be best if we were on the road once more this very evening."

"So you'll be travelling with us a while longer?" Bilbo asked. "I thought perhaps you'd be staying here." The idea of having the wizard remain in their party was not an unwelcome one, although Thorin's expression was more ambivalent. 

Gandalf met Elrond's eyes for an instant. "I have...business on the other side of the Misty Mountains," Gandalf said.

"Business?" said Balin. "What kind of business?"

"My own business, Master Dwarf," Gandalf retorted. And that was all they could get out of the wizard.

**: : :**

The golden leaves fell around Bilbo in an endless cascade as he walked the paths of the gardens of Imladris. It was still a few hours until they planned to leave, and he had taken Lindir up on his invitation to explore the gardens. They were unlike hobbit gardens--more beautiful, and more sad, and Bilbo missed the riotous colors of the Shore gardens even as the austere shimmering hues of Rivendell soothed his soul. Stopping under a beech tree, he leaned against its smooth, silvery trunk and sighed.

"Hello," said a small voice, and Bilbo looked up to see a boy's face framed by golden leaves above him.

"Why, hello," he said back, realizing as he did this was a human boy. What was a human child doing in Rivendell?

With a quick movement, the boy dropped from his branch to land in front of Bilbo. His gaze went to Bilbo's feet, and his eyebrows lifted. "You're not a man," he said. His voice sounded disappointed. "I had hoped you were a boy like me. But you're not a dwarf either, right?"

"No, I'm a hobbit," Bilbo said.

"A hobbit," echoed the boy. His long, unkempt hair was tangled around a face that featured intelligent eyes and a stubborn chin. "I've never met a hobbit before." He smiled, a quick glimmer that reminded Bilbo somehow of Elrond's brief smile. "As long as you're not a dwarf--Master Elrond made me promise not to talk to the dwarves. But he didn't say anything about hobbits."

"Well, we are easy to overlook," Bilbo said comfortably.

"Where are you from? How did you get here?" The boy asked as if he were used to having his demands answered--not arrogantly, just with the confidence that people would pay attention to him.

"I'm from the Shire, west of here. But how we got here--oh, that's a longer story."

The boy threw himself down on the grass, propping his chin in his hands. "Would you tell me?"

"I'll trade," said Bilbo. "I'll tell you about my travels if you tell me who you are and why you're in Rivendell."

"Oh, did I not mention my name?" The boy smiled again. "I am called Estel. As to why I am here..." He shrugged. "My father died and my mother came here with me."

"How did your family know Elrond?"

Estel's clear face wrinkled in an annoyed frown. "No one will tell me," he said. "And I ask and ask."

Bilbo couldn't help chuckling. "I'm sure you do," he said.

"Master Elrond says he'll tell me when I'm old enough." Estel rolled over onto his back, glaring at the sky. "He's a gazillion years old, what does he mean by 'old enough'? For all I know he won't tell me until I'm _ancient_. Maybe not until I'm _thirty._ "

"That's not so ancient. I'm fifty."

"Really?" The boy stared at him. "Everyone is so much older than they look," he complained. Then he rolled over onto his stomach again, all puppyish restless energy. "Your turn. Tell me everything about where you've been."

So Bilbo started to tell the tale of their travels--leaving out anything private to Thorin and focusing on the funny and scary parts. Estel's eyes snapped with excitement when Bilbo described the barrow-wight, and he sighed at the description of Annúminas. "It sounds beautiful," he said. "I want to see it someday." He leapt to his feet. "And I want to slay skeletons with a shining sword, like Thorin," he announced, slicing wildly at the air with an invisible sword.

"Hey now, be careful with that!" Bilbo said, raising his hands. "No puncturing the hobbit, hobbits are very allergic to swords."

The boy collapsed in giggles, rolling on the grass. When he sat up, there were leaves and flowers in his hair. "And I want to see the Shire," he said. "I want to see all of Middle Earth." His eyes shone, and for a brief instant he looked less like a boy and more like a young prince, the flowers like a crown in his tangled hair.

Then Thorin's voice broke the hushed moment: "Bilbo! Where are you, hobbit?"

"Oh! I'm over here!" called Bilbo, and a moment later Thorin came around a hedge. "I was just talking with--" He turned, but Estel was gone. "With...myself, I guess," he finished lamely.

Thorin crossed his arms across his broad chest. "Debating with yourself whether to stay or not?"

"Stay? Stay where? Oh, you mean here in Rivendell? I thought I said I wasn't going to," Bilbo said.

"I thought, now that you've seen it..." Thorin let the sentence trail off.

"Oh, you mean you thought a nice hot bath and a good meal would overcome my resolve?" Bilbo snapped. 

"They _are_ very nice baths," Thorin said.

"Aren't they though?" Bilbo sighed at the memory. "Such hot water, and so much wonderful lathery soap, and such delightful soft fluffy towels--did you notice they were heated somehow? I wonder how--" He broke off and glared at Thorin. "Don't distract me!"

"I'm not the one nattering on about soap and towels," Thorin growled. "I'm just saying that I--that none of us would blame you for wishing to stay here."

"So would you be rid of me?"

He braced himself for another dismissive statement, but instead Thorin took a deep breath and said simply: "No. I would not be rid of you, Bilbo."

"Oh." Bilbo blinked at him, and the birdsong of Rivendell seemed very loud in the silence between them. "Well then, I think I would like to see this Erebor place."

Thorin didn't smile, but some almost-invisible tension went out of his face. "Then shall we start our journey together anew?"

"I like the sound of that," Bilbo said, and they walked together toward the Last Homely House. The air was like crystal and full of hope, and Bilbo found himself thinking that perhaps what he liked best was the sound of _together_ when Thorin said it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beneath the Misty Mountains, the fate of Middle Earth veers in a slightly different direction.

Bilbo tried to catch his breath, feeling battered and bruised. He was lying on pebbly rocks and the darkness around him was shot through with eerie rippling light and the whisper of water.

He sat up, wincing. He could hear the sounds of something paddling stealthily, and of breaths hissed through clenched teeth.

He was not alone in the dark.

"Th--Thor--" His voice wavered and vanished into the dark, unanswered. 

He reached behind him, groping for reassurance, terrified he would find a body instead of Thorin, hands raking through loose pebbles and--what was that? Something denser and colder than the rocks; his hand closed around it without thinking. A band of some sort. No time to look at it--whatever it was, it was no weapon. Shoving it into his pocket, he scrabbled for his knife, gazing wildly around the rocky cave.

 _Oh, Bilbo Baggins, what have you gotten yourself into this time?_ he thought frantically. The sibilant breaths were closer now, though they seemed to come from everywhere at once, bouncing off the slimy walls. Bilbo clutched his knife with trembling hands and swallowed hard.

Pale eyes gleamed at him from the top of a rock. "Is it tasty, precious?" whispered a voice like mist and malice.

**: : :**

_Two days ago_

Bilbo looked back at Rivendell one last time before it disappeared around a bend forever. "Goodbye, warm towels," he murmured.

Thorin made an annoyed sound, but the other dwarves sighed in sympathy with Bilbo and he held his tongue.

The travel was easy at first--they had provisions aplenty, the ponies were rested and well-fed, and the weather good. But all too soon Gandalf was eyeing the sky with worry etching his face. "I do not like the look of those clouds," he muttered.

Indeed, the dark clouds on the horizon loomed quickly into a gathering storm. "This does not feel natural," Balin called over the rising wind that whipped his beard over his shoulders.

"Why would someone try to hinder our progress?" Thorin said, frowning.

Gandalf's jaw set. "I fear you are not the target," he said. "Perhaps it was unwise to travel with you after all."

"If this storm was meant for you, then you have powerful enemies!" yelled Dwalin as his pony shied nervously.

"Indeed," Gandalf said shortly, which did not reassure Bilbo at all. "We must find an alternate route," he called to Thorin.

Thorin's eyes looked wild in the strange storm-light. "The pass is our only option!"

There was a startling white light, a crack of thunder. Daffodil shied under him and Bilbo hung on for dear life. He saw Gandalf's jaw set and the wizard urged his mount forward. "Follow me!"

As the first drops of rain pelted down, cruel and harsh, Dwalin spotted a dark gap in the cliff face and they ducked into a small, dry cave. Thorin looked around, frowning. "We cannot delay," he growled.

Gandalf was examining the back of the cave. "I do not intend to," he said, looking down intently. "If we are to be thwarted from passing over the mountains, perhaps..." He waved his staff and a line of silver light glimmered on the floor, shooting out from beneath his feet to cross the room. Silently, the floor opened up to reveal a hole and a steep, winding passage. "Perhaps we must go under them."

Bilbo looked at the darkness and swallowed hard. "Wouldn't it be better to wait until the storm passes?"

"I thought you hobbits lived in holes," Thorin said. He was already pulling his pack off his pony.

"Cozy, friendly holes, not gaping crevices leading into unknown peril," retorted Bilbo. "And what about our ponies?" he added as Daffodil nickered nervously and eyed the dark passage with a white-ringed eye.

"We shall send them back to Rivendell," said Gandalf. "Elrond will care for them."

"Maybe we should send ourselves back to Rivendell," Bilbo muttered.

"Well, they can't come along," said Kíli as he grabbed his own pack. "Goblins love horseflesh."

Bilbo froze with his bag in his hand. "Goblins?"

"Oh yes," said Fíli. "Like orcs, but dirtier. They swarm beneath the mountains, you know."

"We are a small party and can avoid detection," said Gandalf, catching Bilbo's frantic look. "Probably."

 _"Probably?"_ Bilbo's voice squeaked.

"Almost certainly," Gandalf said reassuringly.

They sent the ponies off into the rain with a slap on their rumps. Daffodil cast Bilbo a reproachful look over her shoulder as she moved off into the rain-soaked darkness, heading back down the pass toward Rivendell, and Bilbo wiped his face roughly with the sleeve of his jumper. "Rain in my eyes," he said shortly when Thorin looked at him.

"There is no shame in tears shed over parting with a comrade," Thorin said. He turned away before Bilbo could respond. "Let us go."

Quietly, with weapons drawn, the party slipped into the caves beneath the Misty Mountains.

It went well at first--if anything can be called "going well" that involves skulking for hours in dark, smelly caves in constant fear for one's life. The pale light from Gandalf's staff gleamed ahead of them, just enough to see by, and they walked in cautious single file, with Bilbo tucked between Fíli and Kíli.

At one point ruddy torchlight-reflections began to flicker off the damp rocks, and Thorin brought the party to a halt with a finger to his lips. He shot Bilbo a meaningful glance, his gaze darting down to Bilbo's silent bare feet, and Bilbo swallowed hard and nodded, creeping forward past them toward the light.

He heard every faint rustle of his own clothing as if it were a shout, but there was no outcry, no alarm as he slipped ever closer. He yearned to turn back, to return to safety, but if he was the only person in the party who could scout like this, well--perhaps this was how he was to save Thorin's quest, after all. _And then I'll be done and my responsibility for all this madness will be at an end._

He peeked around a corner and saw two gnarled beings looking sleepy and bored, aimlessly rattling a box of dice as they sat at an outpost. His heart pounding, he ducked back beneath the rock before they could see him, and made his way back to the party. Holding up two fingers, he sketched a rough layout of the outpost in the dust on the floor. Thorin looked at it, frowning, then gestured for Dwalin and Fíli to come with him. They disappeared around the corner and Bilbo found himself fidgeting, imagining the worst. Kíli's eyes were fixed on the corner where his brother had vanished, and Bilbo saw his fingers smoothing the feathers of one of his arrows over and over.

Just as the waiting grew nearly unbearable, Thorin came around the corner once more and Bilbo felt his breath rush from him with a pent-up sound. Thorin cast him an amused glance. "Two drunken goblins are no match for three dwarvish warriors," he said.

"Oh, I wasn't worried at all," said Bilbo, wondering if the way Fíli lit up at Thorin's last words was as apparent to his uncle as it was to Bilbo.

"Me neither!" announced Kíli. Fíli clapped him briefly on the back, smiling. "I wasn't worried at all!" Kíli repeated.

"Let's continue," said Gandalf, as the light of his staff brightened once more.

All in all, Bilbo thought as they crept forward, things had been going quite well indeed. Perhaps this wouldn't be so terrible after--

He stopped dead as he realized that a chasm stretched before them, with only a narrow span of rock arching across it. "Oh dear," he faltered. "I don't--I'm afraid I don't like heights very much."

"None of us do," Thorin said shortly, "Except perhaps the wizard, who lives always at an unnatural height."

Gandalf shot Thorin an annoyed look, but said only, "We must cross it. I shall go first." Balin and Dwalin fell in behind him, followed by Fíli and Kíli, and then Bilbo, with Thorin taking up the rear.

As they inched across the bridge single file, Thorin's voice directly behind him said, "Don't look down." This, of course, made it impossible for Bilbo _not_ to look down, and then he truly wished he hadn't. Below them yawned what seemed an endless maze of ledges and outcroppings, piercing down into what must be the very center of Middle Earth. Torches flickered here and there in the inky dark, and evil echoes reached them faintly.

Bilbo felt his knees turn to water and he wavered on the narrow span. Thorin hissed behind him as the gap between him and Kíli increased, but Bilbo couldn't move a muscle. His breath stuttered in his own ears, a sound that blotted out all encouragement, all hope. He stared down wildly at his feet, but it was as if they had become one with the stone, immobile for eternity. 

Which probably saved their lives as the rock started to crumble between him and Kíli. 

He heard Thorin gasp in alarm, saw the rest of the party start to turn and stare as empty space opened up between them. Galvanized by panic, he staggered backwards as the bridge gave way beneath his feet, a squeaking shriek of terror bubbling between his clenched lips.

Thorin grabbed his arm and yanked him back, but it was too late. Bilbo heard a chorus of despairing cries from the other dwarves as the rock gave way entirely beneath them and then there was nothing but space, empty and dizzying. 

_I'll never see the Shire again_ , he thought, small and distinct and despairing.

Strong arms wrapped around him and flipped him over; he felt a thudding impact and heard Thorin grunt in pain. Head over heels they tumbled, colliding with stone and then flying free like mad marbles in some god's game, and at some point Bilbo was ripped from Thorin's grasp and wrenched away, bereft and lost.

The world spun in circles around Bilbo, then reached up and slammed him into darkness.

**: : :**

The creature in front of him stretched out long, strangely delicate fingers, swallowing deep in its throat as if already imagining how Bilbo would taste. " _Gollum. Gollum._ Is it all alone here in the dark, precious? So sad. So sad. We are never alone, are we?"

Bilbo scrabbled backwards, holding the knife in shaking hands. "What--what are you?"

The creature's head tilted on its thin neck; its pale eyes blinked. "Is it a riddle? Is it asking us a riddle?"

"Um. Yes," Bilbo said, trying to keep his voice steady. "A riddle. What are you?"

"We are--" It looked at its hands as if bewildered, then its face cleared. "They called us a Gollum, they did. We doesn't know why, precious. _Gollum._ " A sly smile creased its face. "Is it playing a riddle game with us?"

"M--maybe?" Bilbo forced assurance into his voice. "Yes. A riddle game. And if I win, you have to show me the way out of here."

Gollum lowered his head, smiling. A grayish tongue flicked out to caress his lips. "Yes, precious, yes. And if it loses..." His head came up and the sly grin transformed into a beam of almost childish joy. "And if it loses, we _eats_ it!" He shuffled forward and Bilbo backed up until his back was pressed to a rock. "Let's play then, precious. Let's play a riddle game."

"I have a better idea," said a familiar voice behind Bilbo. "Let's play 'I beat your head against a rock until you show us the way out.'"

Thorin stepped out from behind the rock and leveled his sword at Gollum's throat, the tip up against the frantically bobbing Adam's apple.

"Thorin!" cried Bilbo, so relieved he could have thrown his arms around the dwarf.

Gollum's eyes had gone cold and calculating. He swallowed several times in quick succession: _gollum, gollum._ "Is it a goblin, my precious? No, no, it's too fat for a goblin. Fat and juicy, we thinks."

"I am no goblin, creature. I am a dwarf," said Thorin.

"A du--warf?" Gollum cocked his head to the side. "Is du-warfses tasty?"

"I think not," said Thorin, stepping forward. Gollum fell back a step to match, the cold light in his eyes collapsing into cringing servility.

"Don't hurts us, _gollum_! Don't hurts us, du-warf! We just wanted to play a game, just a simple game!"

"Game time is over. Now you show us the way out."

"Do you really know the way out?" Bilbo asked. If he did, why hadn't he ever fled this dismal hole? " _Is_ there really a way out?"

"Yes," muttered Gollum. "Yes." His eyes glittered. "Upward, always upward, to the nasty big sky, we hates it, precious." He wrung his hands together, smiling up at Thorin. "Let us fetch something, something to help you, du-warf." With a sharp scuttle backwards he was at the water's edge, out of range of Thorin's sword. "Yes. Something to help. Nice du-warf and little thing waits here, yes?" He didn't wait for an answer, but slipped into his little craft.

Bilbo watched the spidery figure paddle its way into the dark. "Will he come back?"

"I have no intention of waiting for him," Thorin said shortly. "He reeks of treachery and deceit." He looked around. "Upward, he said. Well, we can find up as well as any cringing monster."

He set off around the verge of the little lake, sword still drawn, and Bilbo followed him--though not without a nervous backward glance at the lake, from the center of which the sound of rummaging could be heard.

**: : :**

"We are _not_ lost," Thorin said a few hours later as they stopped to sit down on a rock and catch their breath. From impossibly far above, a single moonbeam crept through some forgotten gap in the stones to cast pale light around them. "At least no more lost than we were originally," he added grudgingly.

"That's not saying a lot," snapped Bilbo.

Without answering him, Thorin pulled off his pack and gazed at it for a moment, and Bilbo saw his jaw set and his eyelids flicker in a way that--in anyone else--he would say was fearful. Then he opened it with a swift movement and pulled the elvish glass from its silver case. 

It shone in his hand, unfractured and whole, and Bilbo saw Thorin's shoulders sag in relief and his face relax a fraction as he slipped it back.

"My poor pack," Bilbo sighed, opening it up and checking his frying pan, his lemon drops and viola tea and battered tin teacup. "At least everything breakable in it is long gone." He extracted a piece of waybread and handed it to Thorin, who ate it without comment, staring glumly up at the taunting glimmer of light. "Maybe we should have waited for that Gollum creature to come back," Bilbo said.

"We are better off without him," Thorin said. "He was almost certainly going to seek a weapon or a trick of some sort."

At his words, Bilbo frowned, remembering the moment of panic in which his hand had closed around something cold in the dark. "I wonder..." He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

It was a ring, a simple unmarked band made of what seemed to be the purest gold. The delicate shaft of moonlight ignited reflections within it, turning it to pale fire. 

"What is that?" said Thorin, pulling Bilbo's attention from its elegant curve.

"I found it on the ground back there," Bilbo said. "It's...lovely." 

Curious, he slipped it on his finger.

Thorin leapt to his feet, his sword out. "Bilbo!" he cried, staring around as if in a panic.

Bilbo blinked at him. "What?" 

Thorin swung around to look at him--but not directly at him. His gaze settled slightly _off_ , focused a few inches to the left. Unnerved, Bilbo inched over to match up. 

"I'm right here, Thorin," he said, frowning.

"I...cannot see you," Thorin breathed. "What happened?" He stretched out his free hand, groping, and Bilbo felt a strange pang at the sight of his blind reaching, the fingers straining toward him and not touching.

"I'm here," he repeated, and slipped the ring off his hand. 

The cave felt...colder as the ring slid off, and Bilbo almost winced. But Thorin's gaze sprang to him in relief and he forced himself to smile. "I bet that's what Gollum was looking for," he said. "Easy matter to slit our throats wearing this pretty bauble, huh?" He flipped it into the air with his thumb, and it sang out at the impact, a sweet chime as it climbed upward, arcing--

\--and Thorin's broad hand caught it out of the air.

Bilbo reached out to grab it away once more, but it was too late, the dwarf was holding it up against the moonlight, his eyes narrowed. Bilbo realized his hands were clenched and he unfolded them carefully-- _it's just a ring, Bilbo Baggins!_ But he still took a quick breath of alarm as Thorin slipped the ring on his finger, waiting for him to disappear.

Except he didn't. Thorin sat in front of him, the ring on his little finger, frowning at it. "I can still see you," Bilbo said.

Thorin arched an eyebrow. "Is that so? Odd. It must only work on your kind." A sliver of a smile. "That seems a very limited sort of magic."

Bilbo tore his eyes away from the band of gold gleaming on Thorin's finger. "Does...does that mean that Gollum was a hobbit?" He didn't like that idea at all.

"Perhaps. Something close to it, maybe." Thorin twisted the ring on his finger, then slipped it off. "I'll hold on to it," he said as Bilbo reached out. "Might be dangerous to carry it, with that Gollum still slinking around." He put it into a pocket at his chest, under his armor and over his heart, then patted it. "Safe and sound," he said.

Bilbo heaved a sigh as Thorin stood and began to gather his things together. It had been a truly beautiful piece of craftsmanship. But he reminded himself that gold and gems were more the purview of dwarves anyway, and that a well-armed warrior could take care of it better than he could. He wasn't altogether sure he had enjoyed the feeling of being invisible anyway: the way Thorin's gaze had passed over him, the strange dislocation of it. _I would have thought being invisible would have felt...safer_ , he reflected. _Maybe if I had gotten a chance to get used to it..._

He rubbed absent-mindedly at the spot where the ring had rested on his finger, but the empty feeling faded as they walked, and within a few hours the fleeting touch of gold was only a tantalizing memory.

**: : :**

Thorin pulled Bilbo over a particularly difficult stone outcropping, the hobbit's hand almost lost within his. Bilbo brushed rock dust off his clothes, and Thorin saw the bruises and cuts on his hands, the black caked under his fingernails. They had been soft hands when Thorin first met him, pampered hands clutching an umbrella. Now... 

Bilbo shot him a quick smile and set off again, his steps quick although Thorin knew his legs must be weary beyond belief.

Not for the first time, Thorin found himself baffled by Bilbo Baggins, who complained about missing his feather bed and hot baths right up until he was in actual danger. Then you couldn't pry a complaint from him by force. Strange, stubborn, contradictory being. Thorin followed after him, remembering his tears at bidding his pony farewell--and his attempt to hide them.

"Perhaps we should sing something, to pass the time?" Bilbo's voice was faint but steady in the darkness.

Thorin was going to say that it was too dangerous, but a glimpse of Bilbo's set, pale face made him stop. "Very well," he said. He walked a few more paces, then took a breath and started to sing:

_"There is an inn, a merry old inn_  
beneath an old grey hill,  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
one night to drink his fill..." 

Bilbo made a surprised choking sound, then started to laugh, and Thorin cut off the song. "What?" he snapped.

"It's just--you remember my song," Bilbo said. "I didn't think you were listening, back on the road."

"Of course I was listening," huffed Thorin.

"Well, you didn't show it. You just glared straight ahead. I assumed you were thinking, you know, Serious Princely Thoughts about your High Destiny, and had no time for silly rhymes."

Thorin started to snap something, then paused and bit his lip. "Am I truly so ridiculously serious?"

"No, no!" protested Bilbo. A pause. "Well, sometimes. But since you do actually have a High Princely Destiny, I think it's excusable." Thorin heard him clear his throat. "I'm sorry, it seems like whatever I say I manage to end up insulting you. I'm not usually so rude, I swear."

"You are not rude, just honest," Thorin said. He sat down on a rock, and Bilbo hesitated, then sat down next to him. "Being honest to a Prince--or a King--is not always a safe thing."

Bilbo's voice was small, as if he could hear the past in Thorin's words. "Your grandfather?"

"And my father. When in the grip of the dragon-sickness, they...see nothing but gold. My grandfather would gladly have thrown me to my death for a bauble." In the darkness, away from the others, it was easier to speak of such things. A relief, of sorts. Bilbo was...easy to talk to. Thorin remembered his own surly reticence in Fornost, a lifetime ago, and nearly winced. "When I look at my nephews, my heirs, I wonder, will that happen to me? Will I come to value their lives, their laughter, less than gold?" He released a long breath, felt it shaking in his throat. "This glass," he murmured, touching the pack with a gentle hand. "It is all of my hope for the future. If it can cure the dragon-sickness, I need never fear losing myself again."

A small hand patted his. "I can't imagine you needed to fear it even without the glass," said Bilbo. "You're a good person."

"I am a dwarf," Thorin said, and heard the pride and the pain in his voice.

The hand on his tightened briefly. "Well, I'm an honorary dwarf too, right? And you're also an honorary hobbit now. Neither of us are...simply what we started as."

Thorin started to say something quick and dismissive in reply, then stopped and thought for a moment. "No," he said at last. "Perhaps neither of us are."

He stood up and shouldered his pack again, breaking into song once more:

_"The ostler has a tipsy cat_  
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;  
And up and down he saws his bow  
Now squeaking high, now purring low,  
now sawing in the middle... 

After a moment, Bilbo joined in, his clear high voice blending with Thorin's rumbling bass in ways that were--unexpected, and not wholly unpleasing, Thorin thought.

They were wrapping up the verse about the Dish running away with the Spoon when a faint sound reached them: a clash of metal, a voice raised in defiance. Thorin picked out the sound of a Khuzdul battle cry and broke into a run, hearing Bilbo's ragged breathing just behind him as he unsheathed Deathless.

He burst into a cave lit by flickering torchlight to find the rest of his party surrounded by leering goblins., Gandalf's glowing staff and Dwalin's axes just barely holding them at bay. With a shout of equal parts fury and relief, Thorin plowed into their flank, his sword flashing. "For Erebor!" he cried. "For the Lonely Mountain!"

Cries of joy from the other dwarves; they rallied to join his side, and goblins fell before them. Thorin spared a quick glance back to make sure Bilbo was still safe; the hobbit had wisely found a cranny to squeeze into and had his knife out, doing his best to look fierce. And failing. A goblin spotted him and lunged for him, but Thorin vaulted over a rock to spit him before he could reach the hobbit. The goblin spat dark blood and gave him a look of pure hatred as it died, but Thorin was exalted with battle-joy and cared not: he was protecting his own and nothing could hurt him. Laughing, he brandished Deathless in a wide arc, only slowly realizing that the goblins were all dead.

"Uncle Thorin!" cried Kíli and Fíli, and would perhaps have spitted themselves in turn if he hadn't moved the sword before they threw their arms around him. "You're alive!"

"Patently," he said gruffly, although his relief at finding them was so intense he found he had to lean against a rock.

"A pleasure to see you again," said Gandalf as Balin and Dwalin thumped him on the back and Fíli and Kíli turned their attentions to a flustered-looking Bilbo. "Have you had an eventful day away from us?"

"Oh, quite," said Bilbo, and filled the others in on their adventures at the roots of the mountain. He made the moment where Thorin appeared to save him seem ludicrously heroic, Thorin thought, but otherwise hewed close to the facts, with one exception: he did not mention the gold ring they had found.

Thorin felt rather relieved at this. He had not wanted to explain to anyone--especially Gandalf--why he had insisted on keeping a ring that only worked on hobbits. It would have been more practical to let Bilbo keep it, of course. 

The fact of the matter was, Thorin admitted to himself, that he had not liked at all the sickening moment when Bilbo had disappeared from his sight. He watched the hobbit now as he waved his hands about, explaining their climb upward back to the party. His face was smudged with dust and dirt and drawn with exhaustion, but his eyes were merry. 

No, the ring was better off in his pocket, and Bilbo was better off being somewhere Thorin could keep an eye on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on Thorin and the One Ring: In both the _Silmarillion_ and the appendices to _Return of the King_ , Tolkien says that dwarves could not be enslaved by the Rings of Power: "Dwarves indeed proved tough and hard to tame; they ill endure the domination of others, and the thoughts of their hearts are hard to fathom, nor can they be turned to shadows" (Silm 260). In a draft of _Lord of the Rings_ , he said explicitly that [nothing could turn a dwarf invisible](http://oakroadsystems.com/genl/ringfaq.htm#Q79-DwarfInvisible)\--they're too solidly in this world and cannot be shifted to the spirit realm, either as invisible or as wraiths. The "only" effect of the Seven on them were that "wrath and an over-mastering greed of gold were kindled in their hearts," and I've decided to assume that the One Ring would have a similar effect.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discovered and pursued by goblins, the party desperately searches for an exit to the warrens beneath the Misty Mountains.

Off in the distance Bilbo could hear, faintly, the sound of drums. At least it wasn't nearby, he thought uneasily, feeling the pressure of the mountain, the tons of rock all around him. How did the dwarves stand it? 

Next to him, Fíli peered into the darkness, keeping watch with him while the rest of the party caught a few moments of sleep before forging onward toward--one hoped--some kind of exit on the other side of the mountains.

"Have you--have you heard any suspicious noises?" Bilbo said to him in a low voice. "Like a...flappy, slithery noise, following us?"

Fíli frowned. "I don't think so. Why?"

"Oh, no reason." Bilbo sighed and tried to put his worries out of his mind. "I'll just be glad when we're out of here."

Fíli patted him on the shoulder. "We all will. The sooner we get that glass to Erebor, the happier I know I'll be." He blew out a breath. "I just...want Uncle Thorin back where he belongs."

Bilbo glanced over at him. Fíli's sunny, open face was unusually pensive in the dim light. "It sounds like it was hard on you, having him gone."

"Mahal," Fíli muttered, an oath and a prayer in one. "Look at him. Look at me. I'm no prince, I'm barely a princeling. Hunting boars on the slopes of Erebor--I wasn't prepared for any of this. I'm not a leader, not like he is." His voice was low, the words tumbling out in a toneless stream as if he couldn't stop them. "I just want to get him home. That glass is my salvation."

_More than you know, perhaps_ , Bilbo thought. "He has faith in you," he said. "He told me once you were the future of Erebor."

Fíli looked at him, his face startled out of its rueful bitterness. "He did?" He blinked. "Maybe he meant that as a depressing statement."

Bilbo's impulse to laugh was stifled by Fíli's expression. "He didn't, I know. I can tell."

Fíli nodded slowly. "You really can, can't you? Sometimes I have a hard time reading him. But you're his friend, so maybe you can."

"Friend?" It was Bilbo's turn to be surprised.

"Aren't you? He talks to you. You--make him smile. Sometimes," Fíli amended.

"Not very often."

"More than anyone else I know."

"I--" Bilbo didn't know what to say to that. Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by Balin and Dwalin showing up to relieve them so they could sleep for a little while before moving on. As Bilbo lay down, he looked over at Thorin, who was lying with one arm thrown protectively over his pack, frowning even in his sleep.

Friendship? Was that the word for this rush of exasperation, mixed with an inexplicable desire to smooth those frown lines away? It didn't feel like any friendship he had ever known. But then, he reflected as he closed his eyes, he had few friends even back home.

And he had no other word that seemed quite right for what he was feeling, so _friendship_ would do.

**: : :**

"They will be upon us soon," Thorin noted calmly.

"Yes, Uncle Thorin," said Kíli. His hands were shaking as he tied a rope to the end of one of his arrows. Dwalin and Balin held on to the far end of the rope, looking nervously behind them.

"We have very little time," Thorin said as the sound of clashing weapons and chanting goblins echoed, drawing closer.

"I'm working on it, Uncle Thorin," said Kíli as he nocked his bow, aiming at an iron ring fixed in the ceiling above the crevice which was currently preventing their retreat. Jagged stalactites blocked his aim, and he edged to the left to get a better shot.

"It sounds as if there are quite a lot of them," Thorin added.

"Thorin, _shut up!"_ snarled Kíli, releasing the arrow.

The arrow soared through the ring, dragging the rope with it; the arrow and rope dangled into the chasm, hanging from the ring. "All right," he gasped. "Now we can--" He looked back at Thorin, his eyes going wide with chagrin. "Uncle Thorin, I'm so sorry--"

Thorin discovered he couldn't hold his glower any longer; laughter sneaked out around the edges, and he gave up and simply laughed. "Never mind," he said, wiping his eyes. "It was a good shot." He looked out at the rope hanging in the middle of the chasm. "Now we need--"

Kíli was already dropping his pack and weapons on the ground. "All of you, hold on to this end of the rope." He handed Bilbo his bow. "You hold on to this."

Bilbo juggled it awkwardly, his eyes wide. "You're not going to--"

"I'm the lightest, after you--and I don't think you want to try and jump to the rope, do you?"

Bilbo's eyes flicked to the chasm. "Not--not really," he wavered.

"Someone's got to do it," Kíli said, backing up. He looked at the dwarves anchoring the end of the rope. "And I'm the most expendable," he added under his breath, then ran and launched himself out over the abyss, reaching for the rope.

Thorin's breath stopped as his nephew grasped for the rope over the darkness. Then his hands were around it and with a _whoop_ of triumph he was swinging out to the far side, landing with a solid _thump_ on the distant ledge.

"You're not expendable!" Fíli yelled angrily across the gap.

"This is no time to argue about such things," Thorin said as Kíli opened his mouth. "But Fíli is right," he added brusquely. He removed his pack and handed it to Bilbo, grabbing Kíli's bow from the hobbit. 

"What--" Bilbo's eyes were still wide and startled, and Thorin had to fight an urge to put an arm around his shoulders and support him.

"You're the lightest," he said instead, grabbing the end of the rope Dwalin was holding and handing it to Bilbo. "Kíli will anchor that end. You have to get across."

"With your pack?" Bilbo stared down at it and the rope in his hand.

Thorin clapped him roughly on the shoulder with the hand not encumbered by Kíli's bow. "Bilbo, that pack holds all of my hopes for healing my grandfather, for saving Erebor from madness. It holds the culmination of my life. If the goblins catch us, the pack _must_ be safely on the other side." He looked into Bilbo's bewildered eyes. "I trust you with this, Bilbo."

Bilbo blinked, and his jaw set. "Then I shall get it across safely," he said.

His hands shook, but he grasped the rope firmly and got a running start, then launched himself out over the chasm. The rope snapped taut, but Kíli held on to his end, and soon Bilbo was safely on the other side. He put Thorin's pack down very carefully and then sat down on the rock as though his knees couldn't hold him up anymore. "All right," Thorin heard him mutter. "That wasn't...wasn't so bad."

Kíli reeled in the rope, coiling it on the edge of the ledge, then picked up the other end. "The rope is too light!" he called over. "We have to tie something to this end to make sure it gets back across to you." He flipped open Thorin's pack, pulling out a knife, then a belt. "Bilbo, look for something we can tie the other end to and secure it, a rock spur or something." As Bilbo got unsteadily to his feet and started to look around, Kíli pulled out the silver case that held the glass.

"If you use that to weight the rope, I will jump over there and throttle you myself," Thorin called, and he rolled his eyes and put it back. 

"Aha!" he brandished Thorin's little lantern. "Handy." 

He started to whistle cheerfully, looking down at the rope, and so did not see the two goblins that came around the corner _on his side of the ledge_.

Thorin stared in horror, unable even to cry out at the sight. His hand tightened on Kíli's bow--useless in his untrained hands: _Mahal save them!_ He could hear his companions calling a warning, saw Bilbo pull his knife from his scabbard and drop into a defensive stance between Kíli and the goblins. Kíli pulled out his own dagger and scrambled to stand next to Bilbo as the goblins charged them, howling.

They fought madly, side by side, as the rest of the party watched in helpless agony; with a clever twisting blow Kíli disarmed his opponent and swiveled to kick it toward the ledge. The goblin staggered, recovered before it joined its blade in the darkness below. Its eyes fell on Thorin's pack sitting on the edge.

Seizing it, it turned to wield it like a weapon, battering wildly at Kíli in great swinging arcs.

And the silver case holding the glass fell out and skittered across the floor of the cave, glinting in the weak torchlight, coming to rest at the feet of the other goblin, who was currently raining hammer-blows down on a desperate Bilbo. 

Everything seemed to be moving so slowly, yet at the same time too fast, far too fast. Thorin tore his eyes from the fight and groped for an arrow from Kíli's quiver, his hands clumsy on the unfamiliar weapon. When he looked up again, Kíli was grappling with his opponent, struggling to push the goblin over the edge. Thorin nocked the bow, but they were tangled together, even an expert bowman couldn't have gotten a good shot.

"The rope!" bellowed Dwalin. The struggle had dislodged the coil of rope, and it was slowly unspooling into the chasm below, loop by loop.

Thorin saw Bilbo's eyes widen, and with a desperate motion he slashed at the goblin's hand, then dropped his own weapon and lunged for the rope, catching it at the last second before it vanished into the black void.

His opponent dropped its hammer; blood spattered from its slashed hand to the ground below, staining the silver case at its feet. The goblin peered down at it, then seized and opened it. The twisted face broke into a leer of delight as it grabbed the glass hemisphere and then pounced toward the unarmed hobbit, raising it like a bludgeon.

At the sight, Kíli howled something completely unintelligible. His opponent took advantage of his lapse in concentration to shove him against the cave wall, and Thorin saw his head snap back against the stone with a dull _thud_. But he kicked fiercely at the goblin and finally sent his foe over the edge, only a forlorn scream echoing back. Kíli staggered toward the goblin holding the glass, then sank to the ground, his eyes fluttering closed.

The goblin straddled Bilbo on the very edge of the precipice and raised the glass to smash Bilbo's head with it.

Time seemed to stop. Thorin felt the bowstring cutting into his fingers, taut as his heart. He saw Bilbo's pale, set face as he prepared to dodge the blow, refusing to drop the rope that was their lifeline. He saw the goblin's crooked teeth gleaming in a hideous smile. He saw the glass descending like death, clutched in a cruel hand.

He released the arrow.

The goblin staggered as the arrow thudded into its shoulder.

And the glass flew wide into the air over the chasm.

It traced a delicate arc, beautiful and doomed as destiny, and Thorin's eyes followed it until it hit one of the stalactites and

shattered.

**: : :**

_Shattered._

Bilbo couldn't seem to look away as the glass burst asunder into a thousand fragments like diamonds, like snow, like tears. They fell into the chasm in a rain of light and were gone, swallowed by darkness irrevocable. Frozen in horror, he hardly noticed the goblin still looming above him, shrieking and clutching its shoulder. Its rheumy eyes fixed on his in sheer hatred and it clawed down at him.

A rush of fury stabbed through him and he grabbed the rope, looped it around the goblin's feet, and _yanked_.

The goblin tottered and pitched into the darkness after the glass. There was a howl of fury, and then silence.

Silence.

Bilbo found himself on his hands and knees, trembling. With an effort, he raised his head and looked across the chasm, where Thorin had fallen to his knees and was staring down into the pit. There was no anger on his face, no grief, no anguish. 

There was nothing.

Staggering with exhaustion, Bilbo managed to tie one end of the rope securely to a stalagmite. He heard low voices talking to Thorin and could not bring himself to look back. With shaking hands he tied the lantern to the other end of the rope and swung it back across to the other side. As soon as he saw Dwalin catch it, he hurried to Kíli's side where he was lying on the stony ground, blood trickling down the side of his face. "Kíli," he whispered, trying to wipe the blood away.

Kíli stirred and opened his eyes. "The glass," he murmured. He saw Bilbo's expression and closed his eyes again. "No."

"I'm sorry," choked Bilbo. "This is all my fault. If I'd been stronger--if I'd only--"

"I'll not hear such nonsense," said Balin's voice behind him, and a strong hand clasped his shoulder. "You were a brave warrior. No one is to blame save the goblins--and perhaps fate."

Gandalf bent over Kíli, the light from his staff touching the dwarf's face. "He'll be all right," he said. "Luckily, the blow landed on the densest part of his anatomy."

A weak smile twitched Kíli's mouth, then faded away once more. "Uncle Thorin..." he said.

"He's here," said Balin. He was untying the rope from around Thorin's torso where Dwalin had secured it; Thorin's hands hung lax at his sides and he had made no effort to hold the rope. "Thorin. My prince," he murmured. When Thorin didn't answer, he took Thorin's hands in his. _"Laddie."_

Thorin shook his hands off, seized a rope from his pack, and handed it to Fíli, tying the other end under his arms. Balin grabbed it as well just before Thorin swung himself off the ledge and into the darkness.

They lowered Thorin into the depths, but the rope did not reach the bottom. "Light," came Thorin's voice from the blackness, and Gandalf lowered his staff to flood the chasm with pale radiance which fell into the chasm and was swallowed by the impenetrable dark.

Only a dusting of glass glinted on a ledge far below, out of reach. Below that was nothing but oblivion.

"Thorin," called Balin over the rising sound of drums. "We must go on."

"Leave me," said Thorin.

"We leave here together!" Balin yelled, and added something curt in Khuzdul that made the other dwarves stare at him. He dragged on the rope, and Fíli and Dwalin joined in until they pulled Thorin back over the side, a dead weight gazing back into the abyss.

"Come on!" yelled Gandalf, dragging Thorin to his feet as the first goblins came around the far corner. Bilbo threw an arm under Kíli's shoulders and together they broke into a limping run. The air hissed with crossbow bolts as they ducked into the passage; Bilbo saw a bolt glance off the rock next to Thorin's head, but he reacted not at all, following Gandalf mechanically.

They ran into the dark, fleeing death and defeat. A long time they ran, the pursuit behind them fading away until at last they emerged from the endless stinking caves into a pine barren, stumbling and slipping down a long hill. It was raining, a cold pounding rain that soaked them all to the bone immediately as they staggered away from Goblintown, their steps wavering with exhaustion, not stopping until they reached a rock-lined brook and could see no pursuit.

"Uncle Thorin!" cried Fíli as Thorin's knees gave out and he staggered back against a rock, sliding to sit on the ground. Everyone gathered around him, but for some reason they made way for Bilbo to be the one to approach him, to put a hand on his shoulder.

"Thorin." Bilbo's voice was a hoarse croak; he cleared his throat and tried again. "Thorin. Are you all right?" The words sounded idiotic even as he said them.

Thorin looked at him and through him. Rain ran down his face and into his beard, and he made no attempt to wipe it away or shield himself from the torrent.

"You should have left me to die," Thorin said.

**: : :**

In the heart of the mountain, Gollum wrung his hands in anguish. Gone, gone, the Precious was gone! When he had seen the nasty, sneaky creatures holding and fondling and _wearing_ his Precious, he had thought his heart would burst in his chest. He had waited eagerly to see them fight each other for it, see them beat each others' heads against the rocks, but to his disappointment they hadn't even quarrelled. The fat one had merely taken it, taken it away, put it under its cruel strong armor where Gollum couldn't reach it anymore.

Thieves! Nasty, cruel thieves, stealing his Precious away! He had nearly leapt forward to take back what was his, but the horrid dirty dwarf and the memory of his biting sword had stopped him. And then the tall man with the light on the end of his stick--Gollum didn't like that all, no he didn't, it reminded him of stars, and hope, and things he had given up long ago. But he couldn't give up the Precious, he _couldn't_! He had followed them at a distance for as long as he could, hate driving him like a lash, so close to his Precious and yet so far, listening to their nasty talkings and squawkings. Now they had escaped him, had fled with his Precious across the chasm and into the horrible bright world. He would never forgive them, no, he would not! 

Alone, so horribly alone in the dark, Gollum repeated the names he had learned over and over again, engraving them in his heart like letters of fire:

_Dwarf._

_Thorin._

_Erebor._


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the glass that was Thorin's hope destroyed, the party searches for a new path.

"Now what?" muttered Dwalin, gazing out at the rain from their makeshift shelter.

No one answered him. Fíli was bandaging Kíli's head, while Balin and Gandalf stared out at the downpour. Thorin was sitting, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. 

Bilbo listened to the rain fall and watched Thorin's face.

After a while, Bilbo pulled himself to his feet, trying not to wince too obviously as muscles protested in agony. Opening his pack, he rummaged through it and pulled out his forlorn little packet of lemon drops. The brown paper crinkled as he opened it and found them still mostly intact. 

Limping slightly, he went to Fíli and Kíli and handed each of them a drop. They took them from him wordlessly, gently, as if he were offering them a great gift. Balin and Dwalin silently picked out a drop as well, and Gandalf even murmured his thanks as he extricated a piece of sweet from the package.

"Here," Bilbo said last to Thorin. "Won't you have one? Please?"

Thorin's eyes went from his face to the package in his hand, the glittering glassy fragments there. He shook his head, a tiny motion, and turned to the wall.

They sat and listened to the rain for a long, empty time.

"My road leads me south," Gandalf said abruptly, and Bilbo started at his voice. "I have business there. Where does your road go now?"

"Thorin," said Balin. "We must choose a course. Shall we go to Erebor? Shall we travel south with the wizard?"

"I care not," said Thorin without looking at him. "All roads lead nowhere to me now."

"In the south is Lothlórien, and the lady Galadriel," said Gandalf. "She is ancient and wise, and could--"

"--Elves," snorted Dwalin. "I've had enough of elves to last a lifetime. I say we go on to Gondor, to the libraries there."

"Perhaps things have changed in Erebor," Balin said. "Perhaps it is time to go home."

"If we could get back to the Blue Mountains, we could meet up with Mother," Kíli said.

"I care not," said Thorin once more, and said nothing else.

The conversation became a debate and then an argument, with each person struggling to make their voice heard, their reasons accepted. The noise drowned out the sound of the rain, rising until--

 _"--Enough,"_ said a clear voice. Everyone turned to see Fíli standing, his legs braced against the ground and his jaw set. "If Uncle Thorin will not make a decision, then someone must. And I say we should go to Lothlórien, as Gandalf suggests."

"But we must--"

Fíli cut off Balin's words with a gesture. "I value your advice, Balin. But I believe in the forests of Lorien is our best chance for more information...and, perhaps, for healing." The stalwart set of his mouth wavered as he looked at Balin, and for a moment he looked very young. "Will you support me, Balin?"

Balin glanced at Thorin, whose expression had not changed. Then he got awkwardly to his feet and bowed. "Yes, Prince Fíli."

Fíli looked at his uncle. "Unless Uncle Thorin has an opinion..." Thorin shook his head without looking at him, and Fíli nodded once, sharply, as if the motion pained him. "My decision is Lothlórien," he said.

Dwalin cleared his throat. "Then Lothlórien it is, laddi--" He broke off. "Fíli."

**: : :**

Had Bilbo thought the two weeks riding across the northern plains were the worst of his life? He found that hard to believe now. At least then, there had been hope. At least then, Thorin had been...

They followed the Anduin south through cold, gray days, the leafless trees scratching at the sky above them. Bilbo did his best to keep spirits up, singing and cooking the best food he could. But his songs faltered in the brooding silence, and no one seemed able to savor his meals. Thorin had no interest in eating, and Bilbo found himself cooking dishes that were bland and nourishing rather than inventive, coaxing Thorin to eat even a few mouthfuls.

Fíli had pulled Bilbo aside the second morning. "You're a light sleeper, right? I mean, I gather, since you complain so often about us snoring."

Bilbo's laugh was short, but it felt good to have even that. "I do wake up more easily than the rest of you, it seems."

"Then I need to ask a favor of you." Fíli had put his hands on Bilbo's shoulders. "I'm taking you off night watch duty. But I want you..." He hesitated and bit his lip, "I want you to sleep near my uncle, so you will wake if he were to...attempt to leave us. Will you do this for us all, Mr. Baggins?"

"I..." There was no need to tell Fíli that he had already spent the night before nearly-sleepless, listening to Thorin's breathing in the dark. "Yes, I will."

Fíli's smile was strained but sincere and he clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you," he had murmured.

Even Gandalf seemed affected by the shift in mood. His eyes turned often to the forests looming in the south, and his thoughts seemed far away.

They trudged onward, the days blending into each other, a blur of gray and brown. Thorin spoke only when spoken to, and then only in curt monosyllables.

But sometimes, late at night, Bilbo could hear him murmuring to himself, words too low to be heard.

**: : :**

He was empty inside. He had failed. He was nothing. People spoke around him, spoke to him, but they were phantoms, weightless and transparent compared to the stone in his chest. They made noises that didn't matter, they stretched their mouths and blinked their eyes at him, but there was nothing behind the masks of their faces, just as there was nothing behind his own. He ate what was given him and he walked forward when the others did, but only from a lack of desire to do anything else. The days were filled with emptiness, gray and total.

The only time he felt anything was in the depths of the night, when he would slip his ring from his pocket and hold it in his hand. It seemed the only thing in all the world that still held weight, that was worth noticing. When he slid it on his finger, the void within him seemed to lessen fractionally, the numbness recede just enough for him to feel grief and loss once more. The sorrow was strangely sweet after the stunned absence of his days, and so he lay and grieved alone, let despair empty into him as into a bottomless chasm. 

_Not truly alone,_ the thought came to him once in the cold wastes of the night, and he shuddered as if some vile hand had touched his brow. But even the revulsion was better than the nothingness, and so he closed his eyes and clasped his ring tight, feeling its warmth against his icy skin like a tiny beacon.

**: : :**

" _Must_ you leave us?" Bilbo's voice shook in the cold, but Gandalf merely nodded gravely.

"There are things stirring that must be dealt with, Mr. Baggins, and I can wait no longer. You must travel on without me to Lorien. If all goes well...I shall meet you there." He raised a hand in salute to the dwarves. "Fare you well," he murmured.

"Take us with you," Thorin said.

Everyone turned to stare at him, but he looked only at Gandalf, and Bilbo found his eyes strangely difficult to look upon.

"We should travel with you," he said. His voice was low, compelling. "To help you. Perhaps this way our lives could have some purpose once more."

Gandalf blinked. "These struggles are...not yours," he said, but there was an uncertain undercurrent in his voice that Bilbo had never heard before. 

"Wizard," said Thorin, "We took your advice to go under the mountains, and it cost me dearly to follow you. It is your fault that we are here rather than on our way to Erebor in triumph. You owe me. And I say we travel with you."

It was the most he had said since leaving the mountains, and his voice was steady and resolute, filled with power. Bilbo looked around and saw the relief on Fíli's face, the delight on Dwalin's. Balin was nodding.

And Gandalf paused, irresolute, seeming to struggle with the decision. "Perhaps..." he muttered.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Bilbo stepped forward, waving his hands in the air. "Are you all _mad_? If he's talking about the thing that was powerful enough to send that storm down on us in the High Pass, I want nothing to do with it, no sir, count me right out."

Thorin looked at him, and his face was a stranger's. "Are you then a coward, Mr. Baggins?"

"I am not interested in getting squashed like a bug, _Prince Thorin_. This thing has _Gandalf_ worried, and I don't fool myself that I'd have anything to add to a conflict like that."

"Perhaps you would not, but I believe we could," Thorin said, but the moment had passed. Bilbo's voice had broken the strange mood, and Gandalf was shaking his head, smiling again.

"I have allies in this struggle already, Thorin of Erebor," he said. "No, this is not something I am willing to lead you into."

Fury went across Thorin's face like a lightning-stroke. "You would take my last hope from me," he said, and his voice was bitter.

Gandalf frowned and looked a long time at Thorin's face. When he spoke again, his voice somehow reminded Bilbo of a fire on a hearth: a banked but warming glow. "Thorin," he said, "Nothing can take hope from you but yourself. And I do not think all hope is lost forever." He looked at each member of the party, his gaze coming to rest last on Bilbo. "It never truly is."

Someday far in the future, Gandalf would shudder as he told Bilbo the parts of the story that had gone untold, remembering that moment of indecision. 

_But for you, my dear Bilbo, I might have delivered the greatest weapon of the Enemy directly to his doorstep._

**: : :**

The river wound south and they continued along its banks, with the Misty Mountains always at their right and the gnarled trees of Mirkwood crouching on the far bank. With Gandalf gone, Thorin lapsed once more into monosyllables, and the party stumbled on, weary in body and in heart.

"I don't like the look of this weather," Balin said uneasily one evening, a few days later.

Dwalin grimaced, looking at the strange orange-tinted clouds that cast eerie greenish shadows everywhere. "Aye, it feels..."

"...Unnatural," said Kíli and Fíli as one.

Bilbo was combing out Thorin's tangled hair; he had taken to doing it in the evenings when Thorin showed no inclination to do it himself. Thorin was lying down, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. At least he was sleeping for a change. Bilbo glanced up at the sky. "It feels...grasping," he said. He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, that's stupid."

"No, no," said Kíli. "I feel it too." He pulled his coat tighter around himself, shivering. 

"Look," murmured Balin, his eyes on the east. Over Mirkwood, black clouds were gathering, lightning-flashes stabbing through them. The wind was picking up, and Bilbo hastily finished re-braiding Thorin's hair as gusts started grabbing strands of it from his hands. Thorin pulled away from him and curled up on his side, his breath becoming ragged.

"Thorin," whispered Bilbo, some obscure fear closing around his heart. "Wake up." Thorin's eyes moved frantically behind his eyelids, but they didn't open.

Pale lightning painted their camp in stark whiteness for an instant, and then thunder cracked through the air. Fíli pointed, his hand shaking; the clouds were swirling like a vortex centered over some spot in the south of the forest, boiling black and furious. The insane thought came into Bilbo's head that it looked almost like an eye, a baleful eye lit from within by flickering lightning, gazing out toward--

Another thunderclap, and Thorin jerked wildly in his sleep. "No," he muttered. "No. I need to take it to--I must take it to him. He needs it!"

Bilbo found himself smoothing his hair, swallowing hard. Was Thorin still trying to take his lost glass to Erebor even in his dreams? "Shh," he whispered.

"No!" Thorin's voice cracked. "He sees me, I must--I must--"

His words were cut off as the a pillar of pure white flame erupted within the distant storm cloud, piercing its heart like a sword. Bilbo could see the trees bend and flatten as the shockwave rippled outward; when it reached them the entire world seemed to disappear in an obliterating roar as the wind pummelled them.

Stunned, half-deafened, Bilbo found himself lying next to Thorin. Thorin's eyes were closed, his mouth working wildly and his back arcing in some kind of convulsion. He didn't seem to be breathing.

"Thorin!" cried Bilbo, desperately ripping his coat open. "Thorin, wake up, _please_!" His hands skittered vainly across Thorin's mail, seeking to loosen it somehow, to let him breathe.

Thorin's hands closed over his, seizing him in a grip of iron. "You! You want it back, but you can't have it!" Thorin yelled. "I won't let you take it away from me!" 

Bilbo found himself on the ground with Thorin above him, his hands at his throat, shaking him. He tried to croak Thorin's name, but nothing came out.

"Don't you _understand?_ I can't lose it! _It's all I have left!"_ Bilbo could see Dwalin and Fíli at Thorin's elbows, grabbing him; Thorin released Bilbo's throat and sank to the ground, covering his face with shaking hands, hoarse sobs racking his body.

The world had gone quiet once more, the strange gale blown out. A scattering of raindrops blew against the party with a gust of wind; the dwarves stared wordlessly at Thorin and then at Bilbo.

Bilbo picked himself up carefully from the ground and went over to where Thorin was sitting on the ground. He put a hand on his shoulder; Thorin flinched. "Um," Bilbo said, then had to stop and try again as the voice rasped in his raw throat. "That's not true, you know." He shook Thorin's shoulder gently, but it was like stone beneath his hand. "I know you feel alone. And I know you feel like there's no hope, but you're wrong that you have nothing. You have us. I mean, you have your nephews, and Balin and Dwalin," he added hastily as Thorin raised his head and looked at him. "Everyone who admires you and cares about you and--and loves you." He swallowed hard. "And...that is to say...you have me as well," he said softly. 

After a long moment, Thorin reached up and touched Bilbo's neck with a shaking hand. Behind him, Dwalin took a step forward, but Bilbo didn't flinch. 

"Bilbo," whispered Thorin. "What have I done?"

BIlbo cleared his throat, feeling his Adam's apple move against Thorin's unsteady fingers. "Well, you dwarves are a passionate bunch," he managed. "I'm getting used to that." He shrugged: _See? Nothing to get too upset about. Just a normal day's travel with dwarves._

"Forgive me," Thorin said.

"If it will make you feel better, I will," said Bilbo. "But there's nothing to forgive. You've had a very bad week, after all. It's natural you'd be upset. You'll feel better when we reach Lorien, I'm sure of it." He looked around, wanting and yet reluctant to look away from Thorin's eyes. "See? The storm has broken."

"He's right," Balin breathed, and the dwarves looked around as if waking from a nightmare. The black clouds were dissipating, revealing a sky streaked with silver and rose in the sunset. The air seemed sweeter, easier to breathe, and Bilbo took a deep breath of relief.

"We'll be all right," he said, looking back at Thorin only to find that Thorin's eyes had never left his face, unheeding of everything else around them. "We'll--we'll be all right," he repeated, resisting a sudden mad urge to draw closer, to let Thorin's hand slide up from his throat to his face.

Thorin didn't agree, but he didn't disagree, either. After a moment, he drew his hand back. "I..." He paused, looking faintly surprised. "I'm hungry."

"Oh!" Bilbo jumped to his feet. "I found some garlic earlier, and I believe that over there--" he pointed, "--is a chestnut tree. The wind should have knocked a fair number of chestnuts down, if you'd go get some?" 

Fíli and Kíli leaped to their feet, grinning. "At your service!" they chorused, and ran off.

Bilbo pulled the garlic out of his pack and soon was busy peeling and chopping it. "Balin, Dwalin, could you go back to that bend in the river we were at just before we camped and pick some of those hedgehog mushrooms I pointed out? We've no fresh meat, but mushrooms with garlic and some roasted chestnuts would probably be quite nice."

"Indeed, Mr. Baggins!" said Balin, and the two of them tromped off to the north.

"Could you rebuild the fire?" Bilbo asked Thorin, nodding at the ash and coals the wind had scattered. "Can't roast chestnuts without a fire." He kept his voice light, as if he were certain Thorin would follow his suggestion. When Thorin rose slowly and began to gather together the half-burned logs and re-light the flame, Bilbo felt the tightness around his heart ease just the slightest bit.

When the fire was blazing nicely once more, its warmth blissful on Bilbo's toes, Thorin sat down next to him. "Can I...help with that?" he said, gesturing at the little pile of mostly-chopped garlic.

"Oh, wait," said Bilbo. He pulled out a package of dark green leaves. "Sage. Could you chop that up as well?"

Thorin pulled out his knife and began to slice up the sage. Its rich verdant scent mingled with the sharpness of the garlic and the sweetly acrid wood smoke, and Bilbo inhaled deeply. "We all could use a good meal," he said. "It'll have us all right as rain soon enough."

Thorin said nothing, but his hands were busy on the sage; when he finished with the herbs he pulled Deathless out of its scabbard, frowned at it, and began to meticulously clean and oil the blade. The fire crackled cheerily, the owls hooting in the trees sounded cheeky rather than spooky, and Bilbo felt no need to chatter--it was enough to sit and share the warmth of the fire and look forward to a good meal.

The other dwarves returned soon, bearing armfuls of mushrooms and chestnuts, and after peeling the nuts--a chore accompanied by much enthusiastic cursing at the prickles--they began to roast them as Bilbo simmered the mushrooms with garlic and sage.

"Oh," said Bilbo as he watched Fíli juggling five of the spare chestnuts, "After dinner I can show you how to play conkers!"

Thorin looked up from his mushrooms, which he had been eating with a sort of intense concentration. "Conkers?"

"A game. I was the best in Hobbiton as a boy," Bilbo said. Polishing off his meal, he showed Fíli and Kíli how to attach a string to the glossy nuts and knock them together. "I had an eye for spotting which nuts were good and solid and which ones had hidden flaws," he said, holding a chestnut up in front of his eye and squinting at it.

Dwalin snorted. "So you're telling me hobbits spend your free time knocking nuts together."

"Hey," said Bilbo indignantly, "Don't knock it till you've tried it." This had the effect of sending Fíli and Kíli into gales of laughter, which only got worse when Bilbo noted that knocking nuts was much healthier than knocking heads.

Thorin looked at his nephews chortling and pounding each other on the back as though he had forgotten what laughter was. After a moment he exhaled sharply, frowning. "I need sleep," he said, putting aside his empty dishes and grabbing his bedroll.

Bilbo looked after him as he walked to the far side of the camp, feeling his forehead crease in worry. 

"At least he ate all your food, laddie," said Balin in a low voice.

Bilbo nodded, still frowning. Behind him, Fíli and Kíli were banging their conkers against each other and insulting each other cheerfully, and he forced himself to join them, forced himself to laugh.

He dreamed that night that he held a perfect glossy conker in his hand but didn't dare to play it for fear it would shatter like glass, empty inside.

**: : :**

The worst of the despair had broken, somehow. The horrible emptiness was gone, the sweetly loathsome whispers quiet once more. For a moment, standing with his hand against Bilbo's bruised skin, he had even felt something that was not pain. What had it been, Thorin wondered, trying to recapture it. Remorse? Pity? It had been...warmer than that, he remembered dimly. A desire to reach out, to connect.

A dangerous emotion, whatever it had been. The hobbit hadn't taken advantage of it, hadn't demanded anything from him beyond a fire built, some herbs chopped. His hand crept once more to the pocket where his last treasure hid. A dangerous emotion nonetheless.

He heard his nephews laughing and frowned. Hadn't he once told Bilbo that he would always value their laughter over gold? He slipped the ring from its pocket, feeling it heavy and real in the palm of his hand. You couldn't touch laughter, couldn't hold it close to you. 

He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth chase the last of his icy doubt away. He had failed in his quest, but there were always new goals, new horizons. 

New golden dreams to achieve.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party arrives in the wood of Lothlórien and seeks council from its Lord and Lady.

The day after the strange storm saw the party still traveling down the banks of the Anduin, moving south. Everyone's mood was better: the air itself seemed sweeter, some subtle and malign pressure gone from it. Even Thorin seemed more himself; his eyes were clearer, and he moved with purpose rather than merely following whoever was nearest. But there were still times when he lapsed into reveries in which he seemed not to see the people around him, where he would pick up a mica-flecked stone and stare at it, or his fingers would trace the patterns on Deathless's scabbard aimlessly, lost to everything else.

"He's doing better, isn't he?" murmured Bilbo to Fíli, watching Thorin talk with Dwalin about a drinking-song of Erebor as they walked along.

Fíli's eyes followed his uncle. "Stay near him in the night anyway," he said.

**: : :**

They camped that night in the shadow of a great cypress, with the fallen trunk of another forming their resting place. The other dwarves went to cut bracken for their bedding, and Thorin sat down on the stump, frowning. The horrible emptiness of the days before was gone; the world had meaning and purpose once more. And yet things seemed to slip away from him sometimes. He couldn't remember where they were traveling to, for example. He had a vague sense of a decision having been made, but he couldn't recall what it had been.

Well, if it was important, it would come back to him. He was sure of that.

He frowned as Bilbo sat down next to him. "What are you doing?" 

Bilbo paused with the comb in midair, almost to Thorin's hair. "Oh," he said. "I, uh...I've been doing this most nights recently. I'm sorry. You didn't seem to mind."

Thorin caught at a faint memory of gentle hands plaiting his hair, a small voice humming nearby. "I...think I remember that."

"But you're feeling better now, so I don't have to do it anymore," Bilbo said.

"I regret having inconvenienced you," Thorin said. The words felt awkward, wrong, as if some trick to conversation had bled away from him during their trip along the river. But Bilbo simply shrugged.

"I rather liked it," he said, "It kept my hands busy."

"If you wish," Thorin said, "You may keep doing it."

"Well, if you insist," Bilbo said, settling down next to him and starting to untangle a knot in Thorin's hair with diligent fingers.

Thorin nearly pointed out that he hadn't insisted, but bit the words back. He sat, feeling the comb running through his hair, and other memories filtered back to him faintly, like hints of light glimpsed in the heart of an black opal: Bilbo's voice coaxing him to eat; a small warm presence near him at night, guarding over him.

He watched the other dwarves make camp as if they were used to doing the work while Thorin sat and did nothing. Thorin frowned. That didn't seem right. And yet--wasn't it the correct way of things? Was he not their Prince, after all? And one day he would be their King.

Thorin let his thoughts wander with the soothing motion of Bilbo's hands in his hair, dreaming of the day he would be King Under the Mountain. He would convince Bilbo to stay as his page, to comb out his hair with a golden comb. He would dress the halfling in jeweled robes and seat him at his side on a chair set with amethysts, listening to music from a harp of gold with the great arching halls of Erebor above them. He would--

He shook his head, banishing the image. What was he thinking? Even if he were not an exile, he would only become king when his grandfather and father were both dead. That day was--Mahal grant it--still far in the future. No, such thoughts were beneath him, even if it were entirely natural to wish to reward those who had served him so loyally and well.

That felt wrong again, but he couldn't figure out why. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers and frowned.

"I'm sorry, did I pull your hair?" Bilbo's voice was concerned. "I'm all done now."

"You have caused me no pain," Thorin said. He stood up. "You have my thanks." He forced himself to step forward and help in heaping the soft bracken into fragrant beds to cushion their bedrolls, crushing the temptation to sit and rest a little longer. After all, everyone was as tired as he was, he reminded himself.

**: : :**

The boundary into the woods of Lothlórien was gradual, and yet unmistakable. The gnarled and leafless trunks gave way to graceful silver-barked trees still bearing golden leaves even in the early winter cold. Thorin was lost in another of his reveries, his eyes far away, and so Fíli stepped into the front of the group without comment and led them deeper into the elvish forest.

_{"We're being watched,"}_ Dwalin muttered in Khuzdul.

"Speak in Westron," Fíli said, and Dwalin shot him a startled look. Fíli raised his voice: "We have nothing to hide. We are here openly, after all, on suggestion of Gandalf the Grey."

"Aye," said Dwalin, his eyes darting around. "That we are, laddie."

Birds sang among the trees, a sweet liquid sound, and the leaves rustled beneath their feet. The cool air seemed to be filled with light to Bilbo, each breath driving away the darkness that had haunted them since leaving Rivendell. Strangely, he felt for the first time in many days _safe_ within Lothlórien, despite the unearthly eerieness of it.

Or at least, he felt safe until a figure stepped out from behind a tree and lowered an arrow at Fíli's breast.

It was an elf maiden, dressed in soft beige leathers, her long dark hair falling in plaits down her back. Her face was cool and remote, but her full mouth seemed to hold the promise of smiles within it.

"Why do you trespass in the woods of Lórien?" she said sternly.

"Lower your weapon, elf," said Thorin, striding forward. Seeing his nephew in danger had seemed to galvanize him; he stepped between Fíli and the elf, meeting her eyes. "Gandalf the Grey, whom you know as Mithrandir, sent us here."

"Anyone may say such a thing," she said. "Even a dwarf. What is your business here?"

Thorin hesitated a moment too long. Then he gestured to Balin. "Balin, explain to her why we are here."

The dwarves exchanged quick, uneasy glances, then Balin stepped forward. "We...were on our way to Erebor with an artifact of healing of elvish make. Under the Misty Mountains we fought with goblins; the artifact was lost and we--we suffered grievous sorrow and hurts. Gandalf, whom we were traveling with, advised us to come to you, in the hopes that perhaps the Lady Galadriel could give us hope of another cure."

"Do you know where Gandalf is?" Bilbo broke in.

The elf glanced away from Balin to him. After a moment, she lowered her bow. "Mithrandir is in Caras Galadhon. He has requested that you be allowed to enter Lothlórien, and for the great love the Lord and Lady of this realm bear him, we will not turn you away." She turned, beckoning. "But be aware that more arrows than mine are pointed at your hearts," she said as she strode away.

Dwalin glared at the towering trees and muttered under his breath, but Thorin was walking after her without comment, and the others followed.

The silence as they walked was awkward at best and oppressive at worst; driven finally beyond his endurance, Bilbo hurried to catch up to the elf-maiden. "I don't--I don't think we've been properly introduced," he said a bit breathlessly. "My name is Bilbo Baggins, from the Shire, and I travel with Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Balin and Dwalin of Erebor." The startled dwarves nodded slightly as he said their names. "I don't believe I caught your name, my lady, but it is a pleasure to meet you," he finished.

The elf glanced over at him, and Bilbo saw a hint of a smile touch her mouth. "Mithrandir warned me of you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."

"Warned you?" Bilbo heard his own voice squeak in alarm. "Me? Why?"

"He told me that you would not tolerate any 'ridiculous elvish remoteness,'" she said, dropping her voice into a fair approximation of Gandalf's crankiest tones, "My name is Arwen," she went on in her own voice, "And it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, as we walk, will you not tell me of your Shire? The little Mithrandir said makes it sound a merry place indeed."

To fill the silence, Bilbo started to talk of the Shire, of its festivals and bazaars and rolling hills, and Arwen listened gravely, asking questions and smiling when he mentioned something amusing. After a time she said, "Mithrandir mentioned that you had been in Imladris?"

"Rivendell? Yes, we stopped there," said Bilbo.

"I was born there," said Arwen, "But have not been back for a time. Is Lord Elrond well?"

"He said we smelled bad," Kíli grumbled, "And he lectured my uncle about Sindarin grammar." 

Arwen put a hand to her mouth and made a sound distinctly close to a giggle. "It is good to hear my father is unchanged," she said.

"Your--" Kíli's voice broke. "You're Lord Elrond's daughter?" She looked at him, smiling, and he blushed bright red. "Forgive my rude words."

She shook her head. "My father is not always the most approachable of beings," she said.

"We don't actually smell bad, do we?" Fíli said anxiously.

"Not at all," said Arwen, with only a hint of merriment lurking in her wide grey eyes.

Bilbo couldn't resist nudging Kíli in the ribs as they moved on. "Embarrassing, isn't it? Accidentally insulting someone's family, I mean."

Kíli gave him a truly woebegone look. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Never," agreed Bilbo, and Kíli sighed loudly.

And so they walked deeper into the heart of Lothlórien, where no dwarf had been for many a long age, and no hobbit ever.

Eventually Arwen held up a hand and the party came to a stop. Looking up into the branches of a towering tree, she called out something in Sindarin, and a ladder clattered down. Three elves followed after, clad in silvery gray, with their long hair braided down their backs. 

"This is Haldir," said Arwen, "And Rúmil and Orophin, brothers and warriors of Lothlórien." The three elves looked upon the dwarves with little friendliness in their eyes and nodded. "They shall guard the rest of you while Thorin enters Caras Galadhon."

Thorin crossed his arms and glared up at Arwen. "I do not travel without my company."

The laughter was gone from Arwen's eyes once more. "We shall tolerate your companions within our borders for the sake of Mithrandir. And we shall allow one of you to enter our city itself, though we are loath indeed to do so. Ask no more of us!"

"Go on, Thorin," growled Dwalin. "We shall stay here and wait for you--and we have no need of guards to keep us here. The word of a dwarf is bond enough."

Haldir laughed, a light and silvery sound. "Master Dwarf, we are not here to guard Lothlórien from you. We are here to keep you safe from any bands of orcs venturing out from Moria into our lands."

"Keep us safe!" sputtered Dwalin, reaching for his axe. "Dwarves need no elves to keep them safe, you spindly scarecrow."

Haldir fingered an arrow in his quiver. "I wonder how speedily you can draw your weapon," he murmured.

"Enough," snapped Arwen, and at the command in her voice Haldir bowed his head, though his eyes did not leave Dwalin. "One dwarf only may enter Caras Galadhon. But perhaps..." She paused and glanced at Bilbo, "The command says nothing of halflings. If you would not travel alone, perhaps a compromise?"

Thorin hesitated only a moment. "That would be satisfactory."

Arwen looked at Bilbo. "Oh," said Bilbo, realizing she was waiting for a response, "Of course I'd be willing to stay with Thorin. And to see another elvish city!"

Dwalin made a growling noise. "But Thorin--" 

Thorin raised a hand to cut off his protest. "Our efforts to obtain a cure have left us with empty hands on the elves' doorstep. If they have information, I must seek it." He met the eyes of his company gravely. "I shall return soon and we will journey on together."

Kíli heaved a sigh and dropped his pack to the ground. "At least it looks like there'll be good hunting here. I've seen deer and rabbit tracks."

"Hunting?" Haldir's calm demeanor fractured in horror. "No animals are to be harmed within the boundaries of Lothlórien."

"Oh, that's just great," grumbled Kíli. "A forest full of game and Mr. Prissypants here says I can't hunt. Am I allowed to swat gnats?"

Arwen, Thorin, and Bilbo walked away deeper into Lórien, the sound of Haldir lecturing the dwarves about cherishing the lives of their four-legged brethren fading behind them. Bilbo sneaked glances at Thorin's face as they walked, but he seemed lost in thought once more, and they walked unspeaking through birdsong and falling leaves.

"There is one last requirement for you, Thorin of Erebor," Arwen said after a time. "From here, you must walk blindfolded into Carad Galadhon."

Thorin set his legs against the ground and looked up at her for a long moment. "I would have never agreed to such a thing in front of my company," he said.

She nodded. "Just so."

He lifted his chin. "It is discourteous of the Lord and Lady of Lórien to treat a fellow ruler in this fashion," he said, and his voice was cold and hard.

"Forgive my ignorance," said Arwen softly, "But last I heard, Thrór son of Dain still ruled under the Mountain."

Thorin frowned, but his scowl did not seem meant for Arwen; it was turned inward, puzzled, almost baffled. After a moment, he said more quietly, "Very well."

Arwen looked at Bilbo. "You are not a dwarf, so--"

"--if you blindfold Thorin, you must blindfold me too," said Bilbo, although his heart ached at the idea of closing off the sight of the light dancing among the golden trees.

Arwen smiled. "You are a loyal friend indeed," she murmured.

The strip of cloth that went around his eyes was soft as silk, but blotted the world out entirely. Bilbo took a tentative step forward and stumbled against Thorin's side. "Sorry," he muttered.

A broad hand on his shoulder steadied him, then slid down to link arms with him. "Stay close," rumbled Thorin's voice. 

Arm in arm, they walked slowly together, deeper into Lothlórien.

Strangely, with his eyes bound, Bilbo's other senses seemed sharpened. The rustle of leaves beneath his bare feet, the cool touch of fertile earth against his soles, the sweet rich scent of dried leaves and the snap of winter in the air--all seemed to crowd dizzyingly on his senses. He could hear the gentle footfalls of their guide, the sound of birds trilling and squirrels quarreling far away. He nearly stumbled again and his hand tightened on Thorin's arm, feeling the leather under his fingers, the sinew and muscle beneath it. He could hear Thorin's breathing, harsh and rapid, and--yes, he did smell of dirt and leather and sweat, good solid things to smell when surrounded by ethereal strangeness. Bilbo breathed them in, a deep steadying breath, and Thorin's arm tugged him very slightly closer as they walked.

The sound of singing emerged slowly, organically from the birdsong and the sound of the wind: a lilting music that seemed part of the sounds of nature all around them. There was laughter in it, but also the sound of falling leaves and a sorrow beyond the ability of Bilbo's heart to understand. He felt tears sting his eyes unbidden and was glad for the blindfold that hid his eyes. 

There was a faint whispering sound as if of a gate opening, and they stepped forward onto a new pathway, rounded pebbles beneath Bilbo's feet, then stopped. "If you are true of heart, be welcome," said Arwen, and Bilbo felt the blindfold removed from his damp eyes. He wiped at them stealthily as Thorin's blindfold was removed, but Thorin looked upward rather than at him, his eyes climbing toward the sky.

Bilbo looked up, tilting his head back nearly until he fell over, and for the first time realized that Carad Galadhon was largely a city in the treetops, with bridges and buildings that seemed to grow from the trees themselves, natural as flowers or leaves. "Oh," he said in wonder. "How lovely."

Arwen smiled at him as a ladder clattered down from far above. "We are awaited," she said, and clambered onto the ladder, climbing up with easy grace.

"Oh," said Bilbo again, this time with much less wonder and much more trepidation, gazing upward. "Maybe I'll just stay here."

Thorin made a huffing noise. "Do not desert me now," he said, and placed his feet on the bottom rung. 

Bilbo swallowed hard and followed him up, grasping rung after rung with increasingly shaky hands. "I really don't like heights," he observed breathlessly.

"Do you remember under the mountains, when I told you not to look down into the chasm?"

"Yes."

"And you looked down anyway?"

"Yes."

"And then you couldn't move?"

"Yes."

"Well," said Thorin, "This time...don't."

Bilbo didn't look down.

By the time they reached the top, Bilbo was pale and sweating, and did not protest when strong hands lifted him onto the platform. He looked up into Arwen's smiling face. "My thanks," he gasped. "Your city is beautiful, but...a bit _tall_ for me. Though I suppose most things in the wide world are," he added with a wan smile. He looked around. "Oh," he breathed. 

Elves moved along the vast, curving platforms, clad in clothing that seemed to ripple like water, every motion a dance, every voice a song. Peace and wisdom seemed to hum in the shining air, and Bilbo felt a knot in his chest loosen somehow, felt his breathing ease.

Thorin stood with his legs braced against the silvery wood as though it were as treacherous as a pitching ship, but the look he gave Bilbo was more _present_ than Bilbo had seen for some time. "It's...quiet here," Thorin said, looking surprised. "I can't hear--" His expression shifted to puzzled. "I don't know what I can't hear."

"Well, Fíli and Kíli making stupid jokes, for one," Bilbo said, grabbing at that normality, willing it to stay.

Thorin's lips twitched in the closest thing to a smile Bilbo had seen since that terrible moment beneath the mountains. "Perhaps that's it," he agreed. He looked to where Arwen was waiting for Bilbo to catch his breath, then back at Bilbo. "Are you ready to go on?"

Bilbo squared his shoulders and tried to look like the companion to a prince. "I--I think so."

Elves shot them curious glances as they walked: not hostile, but not friendly. They walked a long time across the winding wooden platforms, until they came to a hall nestled in the very heart of one of the great trees, its branches twined around and into the wood. Arwen knocked lightly at the door, and it opened before her. She stepped in, and Thorin and Bilbo followed her.

"My Lord and my Lady," she called into the room, "I present to you Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór of Erebor, King Under the Mountain, and Mr. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire."

Then she bowed and stepped aside.

The hall had a high-arched ceiling that seemed to collect sunlight like a benison; the walls were carved with graceful designs. But Bilbo's eyes were drawn unerringly to the dais at the other side of the hall, and the two figures standing upon it.

They were tall, and clad all in white that seemed to sparkle like moonlight on new-fallen snow. The Lord had long silver hair and eyes like new grass in the spring; the Lady had hair of the richest gold and eyes of starlight. He had a sudden confused sense that these were beings of an entirely different sort than Laerdan or even Elrond, like the endless sea compared to a river. Bilbo kept close to Thorin's side as they approached the dais, but his feet felt clumsy and he was suddenly aware of the grubbiness of his clothes, the dirtiness of his hands. He stopped, confused, and bowed as deeply as he dared without falling over.

"Thorin of Erebor; Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Galadriel, and her low, resonant voice sent a thrill through Bilbo's frame. "Be welcome."

"If you come in peace, be welcome," echoed Celeborn.

Thorin had bowed his head; now he raised it to look sharply at the Lord of Lothlórien. "You did not agree to allow us to enter the Wood," he said.

A flicker of expression went across the still face and was gone. "I did not," murmured Celeborn.

Thorin was silent a moment. Then he lifted his chin to look up at Celeborn. "The history of our peoples is not a kind one," he said. "And I am aware that my ancestors are responsible for the death and ruin of much you have held dear. But I am my own being, and I wish no evil upon Lothlórien."

Celeborn's gaze did not soften, but he glanced at Galadriel and then inclined his head to Thorin. "May it be so," he murmured. "After their great struggle, I am not inclined to deny my Lady or Mithrandir anything they ask."

Now that he was closer, Bilbo was surprised to see that the Lady's perfect face was somehow tired; a weariness seemed to lurk behind her brilliant eyes, and she leaned heavily upon her Lord's arm. "It is true," she said softly as if in answer to his thoughts, and Bilbo startled. "I have expended much of my strength recently, in banishing a great evil from the fortress of Dol Guldur with the help of Mithrandir."

"Was that--" Bilbo broke off and started again, "That terrible storm?"

"It may well have seemed a storm to mortal eyes," said Galadriel. "It was a fell battle, and I am...not fully recovered yet."

Gandalf had been at the center of that raging maelstrom, that thunderclap of destruction? Bilbo remembered the old wizard smoking pipeweed, chuckling and blowing smoke rings, and frowned. "Is Gandalf all right?"

"I am quite well, Mr. Baggins," said a familiar voice, and Gandalf stepped from an alcove, leaning on his staff. "A bit tired, but with no mortal hurts." The exhaustion in his eyes belied his words, but he looked keenly at Thorin. "I am sure that Thorin wishes to thank his hosts for all their hospitality," he said.

"Hospitality? I was brought here blindfolded like a common criminal and--" Thorin broke off and composed himself with an effort. "I...thank you," he said. "You did not have to permit us to enter your lands, I know."

Celeborn made a small sound in his throat, but Galadriel stepped down from the dais and approached Thorin, every move graceful as a tree in blossom. "Mithrandir says that you came across an artifact of power in your travels," she said. "A glass, now lost. And that you wished to ask if I knew of it."

"That is so, Lady. We found it in Himring, in what appeared to be Maedhros's study."

"Maedhros," murmured Galadriel, and the name seemed to echo with old pain and glory: a shining light and a consuming fire.

Thorin unslung his pack and pulled out a small leather notebook. "It was set in gold, with alabaster and emeralds surrounding it." He opened the notebook to a lovingly detailed sketch of the glass--Bilbo caught his breath as he saw it again, remembering his last glimpse of it. "The glass is lost now, but I have this drawing--and this poem that was placed under it," he added, handing her the notebook and the little slip of gold. As Galadriel took the notebook from him, Thorin cleared his throat. "It was my hope of a cure for my family," he said, his voice low. "And now I have no hope, unless you can tell me where such an artifact can be found again."

Galadriel gazed long at the notebook, then at the slip of gold. When she looked up once more her eyes were compassionate. 

"Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór," she said, "I know this glass well. I was there when it was forged.

And I swear to you that it had no magical properties of any sort."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo spend the night in Lothlórien and are given a rare gift by its Lady.

Thorin felt as if the platform beneath him had tilted sideways at Galadriel's words; he staggered and felt a small hand at his elbow, steadying him. "Not magical?" he rasped. "How can this be?"

Galadriel shook her head. "The poem was written and engraved by my cousin Maedhros as a gift to his companion Fingon, in honor of their great friendship. It was Fingon who made the glass to go with it, saying that Maedhros had always magnified the words of his heart. Together they are a tribute to friendship--" She closed the notebook and handed it back to Thorin, "--but beyond that they have no special power."

"But the poem," said Thorin, finding the page in the notebook with the Sindarin and his translations, "It spoke of this glass."

Galadriel looked at the poem, frowning slightly. "I recognize this name," she said. "Elloth of Eregion. She was a great friend to the dwarves of Khazad-dûm and a skillful healer." A corner of her mouth twitched. "A better healer than a poet, it seems."

"Elloth," said Celeborn, "Was she not the second child of Thurinan and Arhal?"

"No, dear," said Galadriel absently, still looking at the notebook. "That was Melloth. Similar names, but born two hundred years later."

"That's right," said Celeborn, and Thorin could feel Bilbo at his side stifling laughter at the sight of these two ancient beings sounding like any other long-paired couple. 

Galadriel looked up from the notebook again. "I fear that you have drawn some incorrect conclusions, Prince Thorin," she said. "Some of the phrases could be taken as referring to the glass, and I understand that in your great need you interpreted it so, but there were no enchantments on it of any sort."

Thorin looked down at the silvery wooden floor, a tumult of emotions churning inside him. There was a stab of baffled fury-- _I carried some elf's friendship-token halfway across Middle Earth for nothing?_ \--but then slowly a different feeling emerged, one he had not felt for far too long.

If the glass had not been the artifact he sought, then...

"The true cure is still out there somewhere," he heard Bilbo breathe beside him.

"It is possible," said Galadriel. 

"Do you have any further information about it?" Thorin tried to keep the hope from his voice, but he could hear it there like sunlight.

"I know nothing of such a cure," Galadriel said. "I am truly sorry."

"You said Elloth dwelt in Eregion," said Thorin. "And was friends with the dwarves of Khazad-dûm."

"It was a happier time," said Galadriel, "She spent much time in their halls, exchanging lore with their healers."

Thorin felt his jaw set. "Then it is to Khazad-dûm that we must travel next," he said. "To find the last remnants of the poem."

"Isn't that the place Stefa said was...well, overrun with orcs?" Bilbo said timidly.

"I braved Gundabad itself. The halls of Khazad-dûm are known to us; we can find the Chamber of Mazarbul, where the records would be." Lost in thought, poring over the memory of maps in his mind, Thorin slowly became aware that Galadriel's eyes were on him. "Would you advise me against this path, Lady?"

Galadriel shook her head slowly. "It is not my place to advise you, Prince Thorin. You will do what you feel is right. But I sense..." She paused, then continued, "...I sense a shadow upon you, a darkness that has touched your soul somehow." She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them again she looked weary. "I am weakened from the battle and I cannot see clearly," she murmured, "But know this, Thorin of Erebor: I sense potential for great deeds in you, but you will have to give up much and suffer much if you are ever to achieve it."

"I will give up anything, suffer anything to save Erebor from the dragon's bane," said Thorin. "The only darkness upon me is the despair of failure, and that I shall banish with action." Indeed, he felt fresh resolve kindling in him, a new determination. "We shall leave for Khazad-dûm immediately."

"Darkness will fall soon," Gandalf said. "Stay here and rest for one night." His keen eyes glinted at Thorin, and Thorin nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"Only if we can sleep on the _ground_ ," Bilbo said with emphasis, and Galadriel laughed.

"We shall prepare a small pavilion for you--on solid ground," she said.

"I believe your translation is inaccurate in the second stanza, Prince Thorin," Celeborn said abruptly, looking at the notebook over his lady's shoulder. "You say _the heart that's eased from anguish and from pain is like a blossom that unblighted grows,_ but 'heart' is actually modifying 'ease.' It's the ease of the heart that resembles a blossom." He took the notebook from Galadriel's hands. "A natural mistake, considering--"

"--yes, thank you," Thorin said, stepping forward to pluck the notebook from his grasp. Celeborn's expression made clear that Thorin was not exactly erasing millennia of ill will between their peoples, but Thorin put his notes-- _his_ notes--back in his pack without apology. Then he cleared his throat and managed, "Thank you for your hospitality and your information, Lord and Lady of the Wood."

They bowed to him and he bowed back, clumsily, grinding his teeth a bit at their effortless grace.

"Come this way," said Arwen, "Your pavilion is being readied."

Their descent from the trees was harder than the ascent; Bilbo turned pale when he looked down, gulped several times, and had to be given a drink from a small vial of something Arwen called _miruvor_ before he could attempt it at all. But his spirits picked up against when his curly-haired feet were on solid ground once more, and he gazed around as they walked, lost in wonder. When he saw the pavilion laid out for them--a tent of pale green silk that rippled like water, heaped with velvet cushions and filled with food and drink--he gave a squeak of rapture that made Arwen laugh with delight.

"This is _lovely_ ," Bilbo breathed, bouncing happily on a large brocaded cushion, and Thorin had to agree that there was a peacefulness to the scene that was oddly soothing.

He didn't have to agree _out loud_ , though, so he crossed his arms and nodded brusquely. "It is acceptable."

Bilbo shot him an exasperated look, then tossed him an apple. "This place is a wonder. Fresh apples in late November--is it still November?"

Arwen looked up from where she was placing a flagon on a low table. "Tomorrow is the first day of December, Mr. Baggins."

"December! My goodness." Bilbo took a bite of apple, and his face turned wistful. "Back home they'll be preparing for Yule Week and the Star Festival, seeking out the best logs for the fire and preparing all the candles." He sighed a little and looked around the pavilion. "On the other hand, they're not sitting on a brocaded cushion in an elvish pavilion." He shot a glance at Thorin, who was taking his own seat gingerly on an alarmingly plush pillow. "Or traveling around with a majestic dwarven prince on a quest." Another bite of apple. "So I think overall, I might have the better deal of it."

"I must take my leave of you now," Arwen said, and Bilbo jumped to his feet to follow her to the door of the tent. "Thank you for all of your kindness, my Lady," he said.

"Rest and be refreshed," she said with a smile. "No harm can come to you in this place."

"It feels true, you know." Bilbo stepped out of the tent to gaze up into the towering golden trees, touched with late-afternoon sun, and Thorin followed him. "Don't you just... _know_ that no evil can touch this place?"

Thorin made an ambivalent sound in his throat: he had known places of great beauty where evil had still managed to find a foothold. But he was forced to admit, looking around at the ancient wood, that there was a... _stillness_ to Lothlórien, a pristine and untouched air. Ever since arriving his mind had felt clearer, his thoughts more certain.

"Oh," said Bilbo, his voice blank with wonder. "Oh, Thorin, look!"

A swarm of gigantic insects swooped down, buzzing--no, Thorin realized abruptly, not large insects but tiny birds, their wings a blur of emerald-bright motion. They stopped in front of Bilbo, staring at him with black-bead eyes, each with a patch of sparkling ruby at their throats.

"Hummingbirds!" Bilbo breathed. "Oh, aren't they beautiful."

The hummingbirds shimmered this way and that in the air like little gemmed clockwork machines, their wings making a tiny shiver of sound. Bilbo laughed in delight, reaching out in a vain instinct to touch their shining wings, and they whirred this way and that to avoid his touch, unafraid.

Thorin watched Bilbo's laughing face surrounded by living jewels and felt something turn over in his chest. 

As if by a secret signal, the hummingbirds all rose together away from the hobbit, vanishing into the tree canopy once more, and Bilbo sighed and looked at Thorin with his eyes shining. "Thank you," Bilbo said.

"Why in Durin's name are you thanking _me_?" Thorin growled, turning to go back into their tent. He heard once more a small voice in the dark, a tiny pinprick of light in the consuming despair. _If anyone is due thanks, it is--_ "You have no need to be grateful to me."

"But all the things I've seen," Bilbo said, turning down his bedroll. "Ancient cities and elvish ruins and this living wood--because of you, my world is so much larger, and I..." He looked thoughtful for a moment, "I think maybe I don't mind being a tiny part of such an amazing world."

"You are not a tiny part of this world," Thorin said. "You are a large part of--well, of our world. Of my people, Balin and Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli. And myself, of course," he added in something of a rush. "What I mean is, the size of a person is no reflection of their importance in the world. As far as I am concerned, you are an important person, Bilbo Baggins." 

There was no response from the hobbit; Thorin finally glanced over to see him sitting on the bedroll, looking at him. Thorin looked away again and cleared his throat. "Get some rest," he said. "We rejoin our companions tomorrow, and the road to Khazad-dûm is not an easy one."

He closed his eyes, sure that sleep would not come easily to him this night, deep in elvish territory. He started to soothe his thoughts with dreams of dwarvish glory, images of himself on the throne of Erebor, leading his people to greatness and wealth, the kind of dreams that had come to console him since the loss of the glass.

Yet somehow, the wind sighing in the branches overhead made him think instead of life on the road: Fíli and Kíli playing the fiddle and Dwalin roaring with laughter, the sound of a brook nearby and Bilbo humming quietly under his breath at his side.

In the depths of Lothlórien, Thorin slept, and his dreams were for the first time in many nights not of gold.

**: : :**

Bilbo came awake with a start, looking over to see Thorin sitting up in bed as well, Deathless unsheathed in his hand. At the door of the tent stood a tall figure, all in silver cloth: the Lady Galadriel, holding a light in her hand that turned her face to alabaster and her hair to moonlight.

She beckoned to them both, and turned to walk away.

Bilbo glanced over at Thorin, expecting a protest or a refusal. But Thorin was sheathing his sword and following the Lady of Lórien into the night.

Bilbo hurried to keep up.

Galadriel walked soundlessly through the wood, her silver train brushing across golden flowers, until she led them to a small, enclosed garden. The crescent moon shone above, but the garden seemed full of light, and in that brilliance Bilbo saw a silver basin and a silver ewer beside it.

Wordlessly, Galadriel took the ewer and poured a stream of pure, clear water into the basin; it fell with a sound like crystal chimes. She bowed and breathed across the water, then said, "Behold the Mirror of Galadriel. Within its depths one may see many things: the past or the future, the threads of one's life. Mithrandir told me that I should aid you in your quest, and once I saw you I knew why he spoke so. There is a powerful destiny hanging over you, for good or for ill. And so I have brought you here, to give you--if you will--a glimpse of that destiny.

"Bilbo Baggins," she said, "Will you gaze in my Mirror?"

"Me?" Bilbo pointed at himself as if there might be some other "Bilbo Baggins" around and looked wildly at Thorin. "No, I'm just--I'm just here because he's here. I just banged into him on the road, it was an accident, I'm not part of any destiny."

Galadriel's mouth curved in a smile that was remote and yet compassionate. "There are those who say there are no accidents, Bilbo Baggins. You may believe as you will, but I would give you as well as Thorin a chance to gaze into my Mirror."

Bilbo felt his hands shaking; this was all too strange, and suddenly he wanted very much to be in the Shire once more. But he squared his shoulders and stepped forward. "Well, I suppose I can't pass up the chance to get more information," he said, hoping his voice sounded resolute.

Galadriel touched him lightly on the shoulder as he moved to stand in front of the silver basin, and at the touch he felt--not braver, but more _himself_ again. "Look into the water," Galadriel said. "Let your mind wander and images will come to you--perhaps of the past, or the present, or of things yet to be. But do not touch the water," she added, and stepped away from him, leaving him alone at the Mirror of Galadriel.

He looked into the water, but saw nothing but the outline of reflected branches with the stars glimmering between them. _Let your mind wander_ , he heard Galadriel's voice again, and he tried, but it was a bit difficult to let your mind wander when you were so far from home and unsure of yourself and--he had to admit it--worried about Thorin, who had been so very distant and remote lately. Within the basin, the stars glinted in the blackness of the reflected night sky like diamonds on velvet, shifting and wavering, and he felt loneliness brush him like a chill breeze. What had happened to the sardonic Thorin he had known, whose solemnity had been a veil for a glimmering sense of humor and a kindness that shone through no matter how hard he had tried to hide it? 

_Have I lost him forever?_ Bilbo thought. _My Thorin, where are you?_

The tiny sparkles in the basin glinted, and Bilbo realized suddenly that they _were_ diamonds on black velvet, forming a design: a stylized raven. His eyes widened as the vision sharpened and focused and he found himself looking at a boy wearing a black doublet.

No, not a boy, but a dwarf barely out of childhood: too young for a beard beyond a slight patch at the chin. With a shock of almost-painful recognition, Bilbo realized that the blue-green eyes were Thorin's.

They were full of tears.

As Bilbo's heart lurched, the vision swung and resettled, and Bilbo could see a body lying on a bier: a dwarf-woman clad in silver silk and brocade, with two sparkling diamonds resting on her closed eyelids. Thorin stood next to it, at the side of a younger boy with pale hair. At his feet sat a baby too young to walk, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes wide as she gazed up at Thorin.

Bilbo saw Thorin's lower lip tremble as he gazed at the woman on the bier. Then his eyes went to the two figures at its head. The two older dwarves were clad in formal finery, with crowns on their heads, and they gazed outward across the body, looking at neither it nor the grieving children at its side, seeming to see nothing but the throngs of people Bilbo could dimly sense crowding into the hall.

The vision's focus returned to Thorin just as the first tears spilled over onto his cheeks, streaking downward. For a moment grief shattered his young face and his shoulders shook.

Then Bilbo saw him square his shoulders and scrub a velvet sleeve across his face in a quick, furious motion. He bent to scoop his baby sister up into his arms and hold her, then rested his hand on the shoulder of his little brother, pulling him closer. Frerin and Dis gazed up at him adoringly, but Thorin's face was no longer the face of a grieving child.

It was the face of a prince.

The vision shifted and blurred and Thorin's dry and regal eyes faded away, to be replaced by a shifting set of images, none of them staying longer than an instant: a room filled with flames; a line of white birds crossing a pale sky; a single bright star shining from atop a tall fir tree; a narrow passage through rock. Then those faded as well and for a long moment the glass showed only mist, calm and peaceful. Bilbo was about to step away when suddenly the water sprang into life once more.

This time the images flickered so quickly that he couldn't catch them all, but he thought he saw a vast flat lake like a mirror under a cloudless sky; a walled city with curving tiled roofs of shimmering azure; a great gray animal with tusks like swords; and finally a glimpse of something that seemed to be a lake of nothing but fire, glowing balefully.

The image went black abruptly, as if a curtain had dropped, then shifted and rippled, and Bilbo was looking into Thorin's face once more. Thorin's face--

Bilbo bit back a cry at the sight of Thorin's face, black with bruises and soot, streaked with dried blood from his nose and mouth. There were bars behind him, rusted iron bars, and his eyes were closed. He lay on the floor of a cage, broken and beaten, and his eyes were closed, and Bilbo couldn't tell if he was breathing. 

His lips were curved in a smile, and his face seemed at rest, at peace.

Bilbo couldn't tell if he was breathing.

His beautiful hair was matted with blood, and his brave strong mouth was bruised and smiling; his face was utterly still and _Bilbo couldn't tell if he was--_

Ripples bloomed across the surface of the vision like a scattering of rain, and Thorin's face wavered and vanished. The water showed only the blank meaningless sky and stars once more. 

Bilbo turned his face away from Thorin and Galadriel for a moment. 

"I don't know what it means," he said after a time, and heard his own voice hoarse in his ears as if it belonged to a stranger. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and could not look at Thorin. 

"The vision is yours," said Galadriel. "Reflect on it and the meaning will come to you in time. Will you take your turn, Thorin of Erebor?"

As Bilbo turned at last, he saw Thorin's gaze jump hastily from him to Galadriel, as if he hadn't wanted Bilbo to see him staring. "My turn," Thorin echoed. "You would let a dwarf use your elvish enchantments?"

"Yours is a heavy destiny, Prince Thorin," said Galadriel. "You will have need of hope or of warning, and I do not refuse my council to any who can aid the cause of the light in Middle Earth."

Thorin's eyes flicked nervously from Galadriel's face to the basin. "Are you all right?" he said to Bilbo without looking at him. "I saw nothing but the moon reflected in the water, but you--"

"I'm all right," said Bilbo. "It's not...it doesn't hurt. Not that way," he added under his breath, too low for Thorin to hear.

Thorin took a swift breath and nodded, then stepped up to the basin and looked within.

After only a moment, he tilted his head as if puzzled and moved back, frowning. "Is that all?" he said.

"The Mirror shows what the gazer needs to see," said Galadriel. "Not always what they want to see."

"Very well," murmured Thorin. "I...thank you, my Lady." His expression was baffled, but neither angry or sorrowful.

"Consider it well," said Galadriel. "For the Mirror shows nothing without purpose."

Back in their pavilion, the Lady gone once more into the night, Thorin stared down at his silken bed. "I don't understand," he said. "May I ask what you saw?"

"I...just images," said Bilbo. "Too many to remember, flickering by. A room in flames, a star, a city on a plain. A lake of fire. I think--an olifaunt?" Somehow he could not bring himself to describe the first and last images; his heart felt bruised and sore, battered with a new knowledge that threatened to shatter him into weeping once more.

"I saw just one image," said Thorin. "Just one thing." He tilted his head to the side, remembering. "A hill covered with flowers: white and purple, with yellow hearts, nodding in the breeze. The hill had a little round door in it, a green door. That was all. Flowers in the wind and a green door in a hill."

Bilbo dropped the pillow he was fluffing. "What? But--but that's my home! My hobbit-hole! In the spring, when the violas bloom. Why--why did you see my home?"

Thorin's brow furrowed and he looked at Bilbo; after a moment, Bilbo looked away. "I do not know," said Thorin. "The Lady said it showed nothing without purpose. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that peace and beauty still exist in the world. That there is still a home for some of us."

Bilbo cleared his throat. "You are always welcome in my home," he said.

Thorin nodded and turned down his bed without another word, but as Bilbo closed his eyes he heard Thorin say softly, "I would like to see it one day."

Bilbo lay in the darkness and tried to think of something other than Thorin's still face in the vision, peaceful and smiling beneath the blood and dirt. Tried to hold his heart together through the night, to hide the cracks within it from even himself.

As the morning sunlight turned the gossamer walls of the pavilion into a blaze of glory, he turned over his silken pillow, smoothing the fresh and pristine, unmarked surface with his hand. Hiding away the other side. He took a deep breath.

"I'm ready to go on now," he said to Thorin and to himself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party leaves Lothlórien and makes its way to the gates of Khazad-dûm, as Thorin struggles with the return of his dark mood.

"You--you won't be coming with us?" Bilbo's voice quavered a bit as he looked at Gandalf; Thorin set his jaw and refused to share his worry. "I thought maybe--"

"My path does not lie with yours for now, Mr. Baggins," said Gandalf. "But I trust you to show this hard-headed dwarf the right way."

Thorin couldn't help snorting. "Our road is through Khazad-dûm, the hall of my ancestors," he said. "I do not think a hobbit makes a likely guide through dwarvish halls." Gandalf gave him that exasperating wizardy look that meant _you-haven't-followed-my-deeper-meaning_ , but Thorin was in no mood for riddling words. He bowed to Galadriel, Celeborn, and Arwen, who stood in a blaze of overwrought glory in the morning sun. "My thanks to all of you for your guidance and help," he said.

_"Le fael,"_ Bilbo blurted out from beside him; Arwen smiled like the sunrise and Thorin wondered with annoyance when exactly the hobbit had learned to say "Thank you" in Sindarin.

"I shall guide you back to your people," Arwen said, murmuring farewells to the Lord and Lady and Gandalf. "Follow me."

Blindfolds were apparently unnecessary for the return hike, which was a relief. Soon enough they were back at the campsite. They heard the party well before they arrived, four dwarvish voices roaring out a drinking-song of Erebor, with three elvish voices following along with some hesitation. The group came into view, and--

Thorin stopped and raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kíli with a lop-eared gray rabbit in his arms, its pink nose twitching as it stared at the newcomers. Kíli looked chagrined and put the rabbit down hastily; it looked up at him wistfully from the ground. "Uncle! It's good to see you again!"

"I gather you haven't been doing much hunting," Thorin observed.

"Oh, but we _have_!" Kíli announced gleefully. "Haven't we, Haldir?"

Haldir nodded. His icy demeanor had given way to satisfaction. "Indeed. We have been hunting orcs. And a good hunt it was, too."

"Our count was higher than yours," said Dwalin.

"But you are four and we are three," Haldir pointed out.

The conversation seemed about to break down into a quarrel once more when a very round bear cub tumbled into the glade, looking around with some bewilderment before running over to Fíli and trying to steal his honey cake. "Hey!" said Fíli, "Back off, bear." He swatted its nose lightly and it sat back hard on its haunches, giving him a reproachful look. "This little guy won't stop annoying me," he said, then sheepishly broke off a piece of cake and gave it to the cub, who snorted happily and ran off again.

"Anyway," said Kíli, "The point is that things went fine here. How about you?"

Thorin felt Bilbo fidgeting next to him. "The glass was not the cure," he said before Bilbo could blurt it out.

Four dwarvish faces stared blankly at him. "It...wasn't?" Fíli said, his voice faint.

"Apparently not. We are back where we started," Thorin said.

"But that's a lot better than thinking it was gone forever!" said Bilbo. "Isn't it?"

Thorin was forced to nod. "At least we know a cure may still exist somewhere."

"But...now what?" said Balin.

"Now," said Thorin, "We go to Khazad-dûm."

As if at the sound of a distant horn, all of the dwarves sat up, their faces intent. "Durin's city," breathed Balin. 

"But the orcs control it now," said Kíli.

"We seek only the Chamber of Records," said Thorin. "We can stay near the surface, where orcs stray more rarely. We travel light and fast, find the Chamber, and get out with the full poem--if indeed it is there."

"Khazad-dûm," murmured Kíli, his eyes distant. "I never dreamed I would see it."

Thorin reached out and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to Bilbo. "Bilbo," he said, and was surprised to find his voice husky, "You have traveled far with us and been a boon companion. But Khazad-dûm is a danger beyond any you could imagine. If you wish--"

Bilbo wagged a finger at him as if scolding a child, and Thorin felt all his resolute kingliness leak from him. "You promised you wouldn't do that again," he chided. "You're not getting rid of me now."

Thorin felt he should argue more, but his relief was so great that he couldn't manage it. "Very well," he said. "We should begin now, before it grows any darker."

The dwarves stood, shouldering their packs, and there were awkward but heartfelt handshakes and back-thumpings (and half-hearted insults) all around between the dwarves and elves. "Farewell, Lady Arwen," said Thorin at last, and she bowed deeply to them, her hands clasped before her heart. 

"Good travels to all of you," she said. "May the knowledge you have gained here ease your way."

As they walked, Thorin went back over what knowledge he had gained in Lothlórien and found it distressingly scanty. The glass held no magic: a relief and a goad. The poem might reside in whole in the halls of Khazad-dûm: a hope and a challenge.

A hill of flowers in the wind and a round green door.

Thorin pondered his glimpse of Bilbo's dwelling as the terrain grew more rocky and the trees less towering. Was it a vision of the past or the future? Was it something he would himself see one day, or was it a message of some sort? Somehow it was strange to think that Bilbo had a place out there, a life that Thorin had no part in. A spot of safety and refuge, free of fear and despair.

Free of the kind of terror and privation being with Thorin had brought him.

They crossed a small stream whose song seemed a lament in the winter air, and Thorin knew in his bones they had left the bounds of Lothlórien. Somehow, as if crossing that line had released something inside him, Thorin felt his mood darken and turn inward, a veil falling between him and the rest of the party. What, after all, had he ever given Bilbo besides hardship and loss? For all his service he had received nothing but the palest of thanks. It would take a mountain of gold to repay the hobbit, Thorin realized. 

The kind of treasure still found deep within the halls of Khazad-dûm.

For a moment he let himself dream of it: retaking Durin's fabled halls, driving out the orcs and reclaiming the throne. He would be sung about for generations, his fame would eclipse that of his grandfather's. He would possess all the riches of the lost kingdom, all the gold and gems that lay in its depths. A pang of visceral pleasure went through him at the thought, and he touched his breast pocket with a stealthy hand, remembering the shining gold hidden within. He had barely thought of it for days now, his only remaining treasure. How could he have let it slip his mind? _Someday I shall be king of a vast realm, but I shall always remember that this ring was the beginning of it all._

"Uncle?" Fíli's voice held a faint note of concern, as if he had been asking for some time. "Should we camp soon?"

"Do as you wish," Thorin said curtly.

"I...very well," said Fíli, looking at Thorin almost sadly. He turned to the others. "We shall continue a little further, then find a place to halt so that we may enter Khazad-dûm in the morning rather than as it grows dark."

When Thorin spotted the small gray stone marker half-hidden in weeds, he looked to see if anyone else had noticed it. When no one else reacted, he stored the information away and walked on until Fíli made the call to set up camp. He helped make up the small fire mechanically, his mind far away, and ate the food that Bilbo gave him without tasting it.

"I am planning our infiltration of Khazad-dûm," he snapped when Kíli asked him what was on his mind, but in reality his thoughts were roaming through those vast and fabled halls, imagining himself ruling in splendor there, Balin at his side as his trusted counselor, Dwalin the chief of his guards, Fíli and Kíli his heirs. All would kneel before him, the greatest dwarf since Durin the Deathless, and his name would be sung in the halls of Khazad-dûm and throughout the world.

Annoyingly, whenever he tried to imagine Bilbo as part of this life, the visions went wrong somehow. The Bilbo in his mind complained that the halls were cold and pointed out that his seat beside the great throne was hard and uncomfortable. Thorin gave him a cushion of the finest golden brocade, and he pined for white cotton pillows and a rocking chair in the sun. By the time his imaginary Bilbo began to scold him for never smiling, Thorin cut the fantasy short in exasperation, glaring at the real Bilbo so thunderously that the hobbit began to look uneasy.

Night fell abruptly, the late-afternoon sun vanishing behind the jagged hills surrounding them and leaving nothing but cold and silence. The air smelled of frost, the lingering gentleness of Lothlórien gone. Fíli took the first watch, and the rest of them crawled into their bedrolls, teeth chattering, and tried to sleep.

And when he thought everyone else was asleep, Thorin slipped away from the camp, making his way back to the little gray marker and the hidden path that wound away from it, not noticing the small figure trailing silently behind him in the dark.

**: : :**

For the first time, Bilbo found himself deliberately sneaking instead of doing it accidentally. He followed Thorin through the starlit wood, wondering why he hadn't alerted the others instead. What exactly did he intend to do if Thorin was planning...something rash?

_Too late to turn back now, Bilbo Baggins. And a proper muck-up you're making of this, too!_

Thorin finally emerged from the weed-covered path into the open, and Bilbo found himself on the shores of a lake, cradled within snow-capped mountains. The water was dark, and--Bilbo blinked and rubbed his eyes--the stars that spangled the sky seemed to blaze even brighter within the depths of the lake, as if their reflections were burnished into unbearable brilliance.

Thorin went to the edge of the lake and bent over it, looking within. For a long moment he was silent, staring at the water. Then, with a violent motion, he snarled something and dashed a rock into the water, the ripples setting the stars into swaying motion.

His voice was filled with such distress, and he glared at the icy black water with such a wild gaze, that Bilbo could stay silent no longer. Stepping forward, he cleared his throat slightly.

He felt something cold touch his neck and realized that Thorin had spun and drawn Deathless in one unbroken motion, and the tip was resting against his throat.

For the briefest of instances there was no recognition at all in Thorin's eyes; then they cleared and he sheathed his sword, glaring at Bilbo. "You should not--"

"--sneak up on an armed dwarf, yes, you've made your--er--point," Bilbo said, rubbing his throat. 

"Look into the water," said Thorin. "Tell me what you see."

Bilbo stepped closer to look into the black water. The stars were what he saw first, seeming to drip brilliance from the sky into the wavering ripples. The mountains hung upside-down, framing their glory.

That was all. Stars and mountains.

"I don't see myself," he said blankly. He glanced at Thorin, standing beside him. "I don't see you."

Thorin's face was bleak. "This is Mirrormere, Kheled-zâram. Here did Durin the Deathless in the days of old, wandering the world, stop to gaze within. And he saw himself crowned with stars and knew that beneath these mountains would he delve the greatest of the halls of our people." He stopped and looked into the pitiless starry water. "I see nothing of me in its depths."

Bilbo bit his lip. Below them and above them wheeled the great stars and the endless mountains, and he and Thorin seemed very small within it all. "Well, I'll never be as great as my great-grand-uncle Bullroarer Took either, I suppose. But you don't have to do _great_ things to be a good person, you know? Isn't what matters in this world being happy and--and together?"

"Spoken like a true halfling," Thorin said. Bilbo started to thank him, but he talked over his voice: "You say such things _without cease_ ; it is enough to drive one mad." He put a hand to his chest, over his heart, a brief motion as if at a sudden pain. Then he turned away from Mirrormere's unyielding waters and began to walk back toward camp. "You will never be able to understand my heart, Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo trailed after him, fearing terribly that Thorin spoke more truly than he knew.

**: : :**

The next morning dawned bleak and cold, and they began walking once more. Thorin was lost in thought, and it was once again Fíli that led the way, consulting their maps and making the decisions. Bilbo watched him as he talked to Balin and Dwalin about possible entrances, his shoulders squared as if under a burden he had become accustomed to bearing.

When they came over a rise and saw at last the great East Gate of Khazad-dûm, he felt the breath rush from his lungs, echoed by gasps from the rest of the party. Carved into the mountain face was a solemn figure, its hands clasping the doors in its stony grip. It gazed off into the east as if in defiance, guarding the entrance forever.

But Fíli gestured, and the party avoided the gate, slipping silently along the sheer cliff face until they found a span of rock that was veined with scarlet ore. Fíli stopped and traced a pattern with his finger along the lines, breathing across it. The veins he touched glowed briefly, and there was a creaking, grinding sound.

The rock slipped aside to reveal darkness leading into the mountain.

Fíli took a deep breath, gazing into the dark. "Khazad-dûm," he whispered. He took a step forward, then stopped and turned to Thorin. "You should be the first to enter," he said.

Thorin nodded curtly and stepped forward, and Bilbo realized when he felt his heart sink that he had been hoping Thorin would defer to Fíli. But instead he brushed past his nephew and walked into the dark without a backward glance.

"Well," said Bilbo, looking at the blackness that had swallowed him. "Here we are."

Fíli had already followed his uncle into the mountain; Balin and Dwalin exchanged glances and entered Khazad-dûm as well. Bilbo swallowed hard.

"Are you ready, Mr. Boggins?" said a voice beside him. Bilbo turned to stare at Kíli, who smiled at him. Then the smile faltered and turned wry. "I know, you want us to call you Bilbo. And I know it's Baggins. I just...sometimes I miss the times when I called you Mr. Boggins."

"Ah," said Bilbo. "Well, you are welcome to call me Mr. Boggins at any time if it makes you feel better."

Kíli chuckled. "Actually, I feel a bit better already." He bowed, sweeping a hand toward the gate. "Shall we?"

Side by side, they entered the blackness of Moria, where only evil had dwelt for many an age.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party finds the Chamber of Marzabul--and something else finds them.

Bilbo Baggins had never seen dwarven halls--he wasn't sure what he had expected, but the vast, sweeping vistas of Khazad-dûm took him aback. Surely these had been carved for giants, and not for the only-slightly-taller-than-the-correct-size dwarves! The vaulted ceilings soared above their heads, and open hallways looked out over dizzying gulfs. Every surface was carved with ornate geometrical patterns visible in the dim pale light that came from gems embedded in the walls. Far from feeling claustrophobic, Bilbo felt exposed and vulnerable with so much space around him. He fought a desire to skulk close to the walls, to let the shadows hide him.

The dwarves showed no such inclination. From the moment they entered Khazad-dûm, their bearing had changed--their usual confident strides had lengthened into swaggers as they surveyed the halls built by their greatest ancestor. Seemingly unconcerned about the fact that Khazad-dûm was occupied by orcs, they walked through the center of the halls as if they were the rulers of them, and Bilbo could not tell if he was witnessing boldness or madness. 

When they encountered the first party of orcs, he decided it was without question madness. Orcs were totally different from goblins--instead of skittering they strode, and their massive shoulders hunched with tightly-leashed power. Not that it availed them anything--as they came around the corner the first of them fell with an arrow in its throat, and the others were slain soon after as the dwarves fell on them in a fury of blades. 

Thorin looked over at where Bilbo stood against the wall in a defensive posture, his unbloodied knife in his hand. He laughed shortly at Bilbo's expression. "Peace, Bilbo. I do not expect you to fight for our halls."

"We wouldn't want you to steal any of the kills from us anyway," Kíli added with a fierce grin, and Fíli clapped him on the back.

They seemed so pleased with themselves that Bilbo couldn't bring himself to mention that surely these clashes would eventually attract more attention than they could handle.

Slowly they made their way through the city until they spotted, at the end of a corridor, a blaze of light pouring from a gap in massive doors. "The Chamber of Marzabul," breathed Thorin. "Where the records of the loremasters of ancient Khazad-dûm are kept."

To Bilbo's shock, the light turned out to be sunlight, rich and golden. He blinked upward, his eyes watering, and realized that the room was designed with an opening to the sky, from which sunshine spilled like a pillar of light to illuminate the center of the room. Bilbo stared up at it and at the patch of clear blue sky, his vision blurred, unwilling to look away for a long moment.

"Leave them open," Thorin snapped, and Bilbo realized Fíli had gone to close the doors. "Patrols will be used to seeing sunlight come from this room and if the doors are closed they'll notice it immediately."

"But to leave them open--"

"--We'll just have to listen for a patrol and hide within the room if we hear one," Thorin said. "It must be here," he muttered, staring around the alcoves filled with books and scrolls. "It _must_."

"There's too many," Dwalin said, gazing around the room. "We'll never find it before another patrol comes by."

"Then stop talking and start looking," snarled Thorin.

Desperate hands pulled crackling parchment from shelves, and the room was filled with the sound of voices murmuring in Khuzdul. Bilbo picked up a book and shuddered as the cover fell off at his gentle touch, revealing spiky writing on yellowing paper.

"This is it," Thorin said abruptly from the back corner of the room. He was holding a scroll in his hands, with a midnight-blue silken tassel swinging gently from the vellum. "This is the complete work of Elloth, 'On the Healing of Various Ailments of the Khazad.'" He unrolled more of the scroll, his eyes avid. "The beginning is of more common problems: miner's lung, the dwarven croup. But I think--"

They had been listening for the sounds of a patrol, and if it had been a patrol, perhaps they would have heard it. But instead when Fíli cried a warning, everyone looked up to see a single startled orc peering into the chamber. He grabbed for the horn at his side as Thorin cried out: "Kíli!"

The arrow cut the braying notes short, but it was too late: the brazen clang of the warning horn echoed endlessly into the depths. Deep in Khazad-dûm, Bilbo could hear an answering clamor rising up: the sound of footsteps and the rumble of drums.

Balin stood in the middle of the room, his face pale even in the bright sunshine pouring down across him.

"They are coming," he said.

**: : :**

Thorin stared wildly at the scroll in his hand. To have it fall into the hands of his enemies after all their effort: unbearable. Rolling it back up, he pushed it deep into an alcove. "If we perish here today," he said to Balin's shocked face, "Another will come after us one day. If we avoid capture we can return. If we are seized with it, its secrets die with us."

After a moment, Balin nodded. Then he lifted his axe and strode to the door to stand beside the other dwarves. "Then let us meet our enemy," he said.

They ran from the library and started down the hall, but all too soon they met the first wave of orcs. With a yell, Thorin charged into them, feeling Deathless slice into leather and stop jarringly in bone. Dark blood spattered across his face and he yanked his sword free. He heard Dwalin lift his voice in a battle-cry and joined in with the others until the high ceilings echoed with their defiance, the first dwarves to fight for Khazad-dûm in centuries.

The last orc fell and Thorin whirled to lead his party away from the Chamber of Marzabul, when a form appeared at the far end of the corridor, and Thorin felt his heart fall.

The orc towered over the others, and the ghostly light of Khazad-dûm made his eerie pale skin gleam like corrupted pearl. The scars and gashes in his hide were like a map of sadism and pain, and his eyes were filled with intelligence and malice.

For the first time in his life, Thorin stared into the eyes of the orc who had sworn to annihilate his line.

With a snarling laugh, Azog unshouldered his great black mace and strode forward. 

It was a losing fight from the beginning; the orcs were too many, and they fought with savage cruelty knowing the fate that awaited them if Azog witnessed any cowardice. Deathless clashed against Azog's mace, darted under his guard and added a new wound to the old scars across his chest, but Thorin had no time to feel satisfied as black blood trickled down Azog's torso. Another blow of the mace and Thorin felt his wrist go numb; Deathless clattered to the floor as he was seized by four orcs and wrestled to his knees.

One of the orcs grabbed his hair and pulled until he looked up at Azog, towering above him. Azog rubbed the fresh blood off his own chest and licked his clawed finger slowly, smiling as he stared long at Thorin.

"What brings you to my halls, you by-blow of Durin?" he asked in a voice of decay and despair.

"They are not your halls," spat Thorin, and Azog cuffed him across the mouth so hard that sparks danced in front of his eyes. One of the other orcs said something in the Black Speech, and Azog's eyes narrowed.

"My lieutenant reports that your footsteps lead back to the Chamber of Marzabul," he said. "What have you come here to find, worm of a Khazad?" When Thorin said nothing, Azog snarled something in Black Speech and Thorin was yanked to his feet and hauled back to the Chamber. He could hear the others cursing and struggling against their captors, but could not turn to look at them as Azog dragged him to stand in front of the open door.

"I ask you again, spawn of maggots, what did you search for?" Rough hands went through his clothing, and Thorin felt a stab of panic as they drew close to his breast pocket, but his captors were looking for scrolls and books and didn't search the tiny pocket with its heavy, precious burden. "You did not find it," Azog said, his voice thick with gloating. "Tell me what it was."

Thorin clamped his mouth shut. 

Azog stared at him, then finally shrugged. "What to me are papers?" he said. He gestured to two orcs carrying torches, and they stepped forward with a salute. "I should have done this a long time ago. I thank you for the reminder."

The orcs threw the torches into the Chamber, and flames flared up from the alcoves as dry parchment and leather caught fire instantly. Thorin felt a howl of fury and despair shatter his chest as he surged forward against his captors' grip, but the room was lighting into an inferno already, the heat scorching his face as all his hopes burned before him.

He heard Azog laughing, and then his cry was cut off as something smashed into the back of his head and he fell into blackness filled with flame and loss.

**: : :**

He came to himself slowly. There was a taste of ashes and blood in his mouth, and he lay on cold iron. When he sat up, he found himself in a cage bolted to the floor, its rusted bars encircling him. The floor was scattered with straw and bones.

"He's awake," said a voice that he vaguely recognized as Balin's.

"Where--" His voice cracked and died in his parched and torn throat. He looked around to see four more cages, each with a bloody and battered occupant.

"He said he still wants answers from you," Dwalin said.

"I think the rest of us are here for the orcs to...practice their skills on," Fíli added.

Thorin stared around the room. Four cages. Four cages and his own. "Where is Bilbo?" he finally managed to croak, and the question seemed to tear fresh pain from his lungs.

The other dwarves looked at each other and at him. "Thorin," said Kíli. "None of us have seen him since we left the Chamber."

The Chamber. Everything within the room was destroyed now, burnt to cinders. Thorin felt anguish tear his chest. All was lost, consumed in fire. They would all perish here, nothing but bloody sport for the orcs.

Far off he heard drums, their voices raised in triumph, mocking: _doom._

_Doom._


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo proves to be braver and more resilient than perhaps even he suspected, and Thorin reaches a point of crisis.

As for Bilbo Baggins, what happened to him was this: when the great pale orc appeared, he had taken advantage of the distraction to scurry into the shadows, evading further detection. Luckily for him, the orcs seemed to find it difficult to distinguish between dwarves and hobbits, and his escape had gone unnoticed. 

He had hidden in the shadows, his little heart pounding, and cursed himself: _Bilbo Baggins, you coward! Help them!_ But his feet had refused to move, and he had watched in helpless horror as the party was defeated, as Azog had mocked and taunted Thorin.

But when the library was set ablaze and he heard the cry of anguish ripped from Thorin's heart, he felt his jaw set and he stopped trying to force his feet forward, instead moving as far back into the shadows as possible and holding himself perfectly still. He watched as Azog struck Thorin down--if he could have seen his own face, he would not have recognized himself at that moment--and the dwarves were carried away.

And when the hall was clear, he took a deep breath and plunged into the maelstrom of flame that had been the Chamber of Marzabul.

Sparks flew around him and the heat seemed to batter him, the stone walls swimming in a haze as sweat poured down his face. Scrambling wildly through floating scraps of charring paper, he made his way to the back of the library. He was holding his breath, but the heat seemed to lick at his lips, trying to force its way into his lungs as he staggered against the billowing smoke toward his goal.

There! A scrap of midnight-blue tassel deep in a shelf, untouched as yet by the flame. Bilbo seized it and ran, the scorching stone blistering his bare feet. He wrapped himself around the precious scroll, shielding it from flying sparks with his own body, and staggered blindly toward the door. Everything was wavering in a blaze of agonizing light, but somehow he managed to make it clear of the flames and out of the doomed chamber, his prize still safe and undamaged in his trembling hands.

The cool of the stone hall was a blessed balm after the inferno, and for a long moment he leaned against the carved granite of the wall, dragging in breaths of cool damp air. He felt a sharp pain; looking down he saw the hair on his toes still smouldering and stifled a yelp, hopping around and swatting at his feet.

Then for a little bit he simply sat down and was grateful to be alive.

The scroll--the silken tassel was a little charred, but the parchment seemed undamaged--he slipped into his pack. The halls of Khazad-dûm echoed around him. Somewhere within them were his friends--if they were not dead already at the hands of that terrible white orc.

Bilbo set his jaw and began to descend into occupied Khazad-dûm.

It was a terrible time, skulking and trembling in the shadows, hiding behind racks of rusted and bloody weapons, creeping always downward, searching. After a few hours, he came across a great hall filled with empty tables and the smell of cooking, thick and vile. In the back of the hall was a great wooden cage, and within it a massive, stoop-shouldered being like an vast orc. It was staring behind it at something Bilbo couldn't see. Then it made a phlegmy rattling sound and shook at its bars, which creaked.

"Here now!" yelled an angry voice that seemed to be made of teeth and drool, and Bilbo ducked under a table, his heart pounding. But the voice was not for him. "Don't you be teasing that cave troll, if you know what's good for you!" There was a whining answer that Bilbo couldn't make out. "Remember what happened last time it got loose? Skarktil thought it good sport to poke it, didn't he? Until it busted open the cage and Skarktil ended up splattered across the ceiling, right? So stay away!"

The owner of the whining voice walked past the table under which Bilbo crouched, its iron-shod feet grating against the stone and the bunch of keys at its belt jingling with a cheerfulness that seemed cruelly out of place in the dismal depths. Then the feet stopped, and Bilbo heard a snuffling sound.

"What's that smell, eh?" said the whining voice. "I never smelt that before."

"Probably them dwarves the Master captured," came the bored answer.

The whine sharpened indignantly. "You think I don't know dwarf stink? I've had it in my nose forever, it seems, these filthy halls reek of them! No, it ain't dwarf. It smells like...maybe chicken?" More juicy sniffling noises, and then there was a sharp sound of impact; the whining voice yelped and the feet moved away.

"I'll throw more than a pot at you if you don't go fetch me some meat for the troll. He gets cranky when he's hungry, you know."

"All right, all right, I'm going," complained the key-holding orc as Bilbo cowered, shivering and making himself as small and silent as possible. When the cook fed the troll his haunch of meat, Bilbo slipped through the hall under the tables under cover of the horrific crunching and slobbering and out the other side.

And finally, when he had nearly given up hope and resolved that he was to die deep in the roots of the Misty Mountains, he found the cells where Thorin and his company were being held.

**: : :**

Thorin stared up at the ceiling of his cage and ignored his companions' attempts to speak to him. In his mind's eye he saw once more the Chamber of Marzabul in flames, a forge of anguish from which nothing would ever be drawn out. 

In the depths of Khazad-dûm, Thorin of Erebor chiseled his own heart into a thousand facets of regret.

"Mahal's mercy!" Balin's gasp broke through his pain, but not until he heard Fíli's wondering voice say "Bilbo?" did Thorin sit up.

In the door was Bilbo Baggins, his curling hair singed and his once-merry face soot-streaked and grim. When he saw Thorin in his cage, his eyes widened and his mouth worked for a moment, and then he was running across the room to throw himself to his knees and grasp the bars. "Thorin," he said. "Are you--"

There was a warning shout from Dwalin and Bilbo barely had time to hurl himself out of the way as an orc guard's jagged sword whistled through the space where his neck had been.

Bilbo's little knife--his tiny, pitiful knife--was out, and he dropped into a defensive crouch. No chance for defiance or for Khuzdul curses this time--the orc was on him in an instant.

Thorin seized the bars of his cage in his hands as though he could somehow break free and defend Bilbo with the sheer strength of his anguish, but they held firm as Bilbo dodged and stabbed and struggled. The fight was brutal and graceless, nothing but a frantic scrabble for survival punctuated by gasping breaths. The cruel sword got through the halfling's defenses and stabbed into his shoulder, and scarlet sprang to stain the ridiculous oatmeal jumper. Thorin heard a cry of unbearable agony, the sound of a heart cracking its sinews, and realized the sound did not come from the grimly silent Bilbo but from his own throat.

As if galvanized by the sound of Thorin's voice, Bilbo hacked wildly at the orc's hands and then slashed at its face, and managed to score a long cut across the gnarled forehead. Blood streaming down its face, the orc swung wildly and missed.

Bilbo Baggins stepped under its guard and stabbed it to the heart.

He lacked the strength to make it an easy kill; the orc thrashed and struggled and he had to stand astride it and stab it again, his throat working and his mouth set in grim misery. He stepped aside as its death throes finally twitched into extinction, his breath coming in great heaving gasps that he couldn't seem to control, then lurched forward to grope at its belt, searching for keys. His hands came up empty, and he whirled to stagger to Thorin's cage, seizing the bars.

"Thor--" he started, but the word broke off into a whooping gasp as he struggled for breath. "Thor--" His eyes widened in panic as his sides heaved. 

Thorin had seen this in warriors after their first fight; the body retching for air that never seemed to come. "It will pass," he said, putting his hands around Bilbo's shaking fingers. "But there is no time. Listen to me."

"The libr--" Bilbo wheezed between gasps.

"--I saw," Thorin said. "All is lost. I know. Bilbo, _listen to me._ "

Bilbo stared at his face; what he saw Thorin did not know, but tears welled in the halfling's red-rimmed eyes and cut channels through the soot and blood on his cheeks.

"Bilbo, you do not have the key," Thorin said. It was important he speak quickly and calmly. It was vital that Bilbo understand. "We cannot escape. But you can."

Bilbo shook his head mutely from side to side, face twisted with pain.

"Yes you can," Thorin repeated. "Because you will have this."

He reached in his breast pocket and took out his golden ring.

His blood roared in his ears as he looked at it, and denial rose up in him. His only hope, his one dear treasure! It shone in his hand, pure and uncorrupted, the only thing of beauty in Khazad-dûm--

No, thought Thorin. Not the only.

He curled his fingers around the ring so he wouldn't have to see its glory and looked instead at Bilbo's face, streaked with blood and ash. At his eyes. "With this you can be invisible. You can go unseen through the halls of Khazad-dûm and safely to the other side." He held out his hand (the ring was so heavy, he could hardly lift it, it would be so much easier to let it drop safely by his side, by his side forever) and put it through the bars. "Take it and go, Bilbo Baggins. Go back to the Shire, back to your merry green door and the bright flowers above it. Be safe and be happy and know that you are--" His voice stopped in his throat and he had to stop and try again, "--that your life is precious to me."

Through a haze of anguish that threatened to lock his muscles in place, he managed to open his grip and let the ring drop into Bilbo's trembling hands.

Ignoring the ring, Bilbo stared at him, still shaking with frantic, sobbing gasps for air, then looked wildly at the other dwarves.

"Go!" yelled Fíli, and the others joined in, imploring him to leave, flee, fly to safety, go _now._

"There are worse ways for a dwarf to die than in the halls of Durin, laddie," said Balin.

Bilbo looked back at Thorin and his mouth worked. He struggled to speak, but his words were cut off by his ragged breaths. He threw himself to his knees and brought Thorin's hands to his mouth. Thorin felt lips press against his skin, trembling, for a long moment. 

Bilbo stood again and nodded, once.

Then he slipped the ring on his finger and disappeared.

Thorin heard gasps of wonder from the other dwarves, but the sound was far away and distant through the incandescent pain in his heart as he realized his ring was gone, that he had given it up. Agony ignited his soul, and he sobbed in its purifying fire, sinking to his hands and knees on the cold steel floor, shaken by a transcendent anguish. His spirit was burned to ash and cinders, and he let the pain sweep over him and annihilate him as if he hungered for it.

And somehow he found himself on the other side, tears drying on his cheeks and a strange peace in his heart.

Thorin of Erebor lay in a cage in the depths of Khazad-dûm with the imprint of Bilbo's kiss on his fingers, and knew in the bedrock of his soul that at last he had seen his treasure true. 

He would face his death free of the dragon-sickness, with a whole mind and clear eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring escape from Moria, followed by a spot of tea.

Bilbo Baggins licked his lips nervously, and tasted soot and blood. Moria's soot.

Thorin's blood.

The golden ring was heavy on his finger as he crept down the corridors away from the cells where the dwarves were being held. The world seemed strange somehow--as if there were an eerie wavering light around everything. But he still didn't truly believe until he rounded a corner and came nearly face-to-face with an orc guard.

He flinched back, stifling a gasp--and the guard looked at him and through him, and its gaze moved on, incurious.

After that Bilbo was less worried, although never truly comfortable as he ghosted through the halls of Khazad-dûm, creeping--not forward toward freedom, but back the way he had come.

Finally he found himself back in the great hall he had seen before. It was now filled with orcs, stomping and belching and gobbling rank and gristly gobbets of food. In the back, the cave troll glared at them all with its little, close-set eyes.

Bilbo slipped through the crowd, dodging hobnailed boots and drunkenly waved flagons, until he found an orc with a ring of keys on its belt and made a note of his seat. Then he made his way back to where the troll was--its nostrils flared as he drew close, making Bilbo freeze, but it wrinkled its brow and subsided. Reaching back and groping in his pack, Bilbo pulled out his secret weapon.

A pewter pepperpot.

Unscrewing the lid, he shook a healthy heap of ground pepper into his hand and moved to stand directly in front of the troll. He could feel its hot breath, and a drop of drool flicked out to land on his foot, making him shudder.

With a swift motion, he blew the pepper up the troll's nose.

The troll reared back with a roar of shock and fury, flinging its arms around to batter its unseen tormentor. Shrieks broke out in the hall as it seized the wooden bars and yanked, bursting them asunder with a howl of triumph before falling on the orcs.

Bilbo dodged and scrambled, avoiding flying orcs while looking for the one with the keys. He had nearly begun to curse his stupid plan when he heard a jangling crunch as the orc he was looking for smashed into the wall next to him and crumpled to the ground. "Sorry," muttered Bilbo with not a great deal of sincerity as he extracted the keys.

He ran back to the cell as fast as his singed feet could take him.

The dwarves didn't respond at all when he burst into the room. Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli were all sunk in their private thoughts, and Thorin--Bilbo's heart smashed into the walls of his chest when he saw his face, smiling and peaceful and still. Running forward, he jammed a random key into the lock and nearly sobbed aloud as the door popped open.

Thorin's eyes opened and he stared at the open door blankly, and Bilbo realized he had forgotten to remove the ring. "It's me," he blurted, pulling it off. "We have to hurry."

"Bilbo?" Thorin looked at him as if he had just woken from a dream. "But you're..."

Bilbo couldn't help grinning as he hurried to unlock the other cages. "The orcs are having a little cave troll problem, and we're moving--fast."

Dwalin was already grabbing their packs and weapons from the corner and handing them around. Thorin was still staring at Bilbo. Slowly, a scowl marred the quiet wonder in his face. "You _idiot_ ," he snarled. "You were supposed to be on your way home now."

Bilbo reached out and grabbed his hand. "And I am," he said. "But I'm not going without you. So stop complaining and let's _go_!"

Still holding Thorin's hand, he dragged him from the room and down the hall.

They made their way west, moving fast through the echoing halls. They encountered no pursuit--by the time the cave troll had been subdued and their escape discovered, their trail would have gone too cold. Somewhere in the depths of Moria, Azog would be disemboweling his minions and raging, swearing hideous vengeance on all the line of Durin.

And far to the west, the dwarves and Bilbo emerged into a pale silver pre-dawn, safe on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

They lost little time in descending from the west gate, quietly skirting a dark pool that bubbled ominously but stayed quiescent. The valley was dusted with snow, and when the sun lifted over the mountains behind them it lit everything up in a blaze of rose and argent for a moment.

"This is far enough," said Thorin, raising a hand. "We can stop for a moment." The rest of his party dropped where they stood, collapsing onto the ground to take great whooping gasps of icy air.

"Bilbo," said Dwalin after a while, staring at him. "Bilbo Baggins, by Durin!"

And then the dwarves were crowding around him, roaring with laughter and thanking him. Dwalin thumped him on the back and Bilbo hissed a small breath between his teeth; Thorin caught Dwalin's hand out of the air before it could connect again. "He is injured."

Bilbo shook his head at Dwalin's apology. "This little scratch? It hardly hurts at all." He flexed his shoulders and stifled a gasp at the movement. Looking down he saw fresh crimson spreading on the woolen jumper.

He looked up to see Thorin brandishing a knife and felt his eyes widen just a bit. "We need to remove it quickly and bandage the wound," Thorin explained.

Bilbo backed away, protesting weakly: "Not my lovely jumper, oh dear." But it was no use; the jumper was cut away.

"The waistcoat too," Thorin said grimly, and Bilbo moaned as if the knife were cutting his flesh rather than his clothes.

"Not my second-best…" Thorin gently pulled the cloth aside and he saw his shoulder. The world went a bit dim and the next thing he knew he was looking up at Fíli and Kíli's concerned faces, framed by the sky. There was cloth beneath his head. "What am I doing down here?" he said, confused.

"Getting bandaged, so hold still," came Thorin's gruff voice. "And don't look."

Bilbo took his advice.

"And your feet are burned, you foolish hobbit," he heard Thorin mutter after a while. Gentle hands, cool as stone, cupped his feet. For the first time he became aware of the pain in the soles, but he was more aware of the fingers brushing against his instep. "Balin, fetch some salve. How in Durin's name did you burn your feet?"

"Oh," said Bilbo, distracted by the sensation, "The library, I suppose." Then he sat up straight, throwing off Thorin's hands. "The library!" Scrambling to his feet, the pain of the blisters forgotten, he ran to his pack and opened it. "I…" He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure for no clear reason. "I got this out of the library before it burned."

The dwarves went silent as he held out the scroll with its midnight-blue tassel to Thorin, who was still kneeling on the ground.

Thorin looked at it, then looked up at Bilbo's face. His brows drew together in something like confusion, something close to pain. Reaching out slowly, he closed his fingers around it, staring down at the ancient paper. Bilbo heard him draw a long breath. "Lucky indeed was the day," he whispered, "When I failed to look where I was going in Bree and collided with the cleverest and bravest heart in Middle Earth."

His voice was shaking and low, very unlike his usual gruff tones. Flustered, Bilbo bounced on the balls of his feet and winced slightly as the blisters reasserted themselves.

Thorin made an annoyed sound at the sight, and his odd mood seemed to pass. "And now you will sit down and give me your foot, you annoying halfling." He handed Balin the scroll and took a small pot from him, reaching out to clasp Bilbo's foot once more.

"Aren't you going to look at the poem?" Bilbo asked. It was very strange indeed to have Thorin kneeling in front of him, smoothing something cool and mint-scented over his skin.

"Soon enough," said Thorin. "We must get further from Moria before we can camp. Give me your other foot," he said. His hands were strong without being rough, and Bilbo couldn't help sighing with relief as he worked the balm into his skin. Then he realized he'd forgotten something else.

"Oh," he said. "I guess I should...return this to you." He felt suddenly reluctant, but he pulled the ring out of his trousers pocket and held it out.

To his shock, Thorin flinched backwards away from him, a wincing involuntary movement. His eyes went to Bilbo's face and Bilbo saw for an instant a deep shame within them. "It was not a loan," he said. After a moment, he reached out and closed Bilbo's filthy fingers around the shining piece of gold. "It was a gift. For better or for worse, it is yours now."

"Oh. Very well, I suppose," said Bilbo, and slipped it back into his pocket with a sneaking feeling of relief. It was, after all, much more useful for him than for Thorin.

Thorin finished working the last of the balm into his feet in silence. Then he stood. "Carry his pack and mine," he said to Dwalin and Fíli. "I shall carry the hobbit. You are injured," he said patiently as Bilbo squeaked and scooted away from him on the rock. "Your feet will not heal if you walk on them."

"You--you're all injured," Bilbo managed as Thorin hoisted him onto his back like a child playing piggy-back. "This is ridiculous."

He felt Thorin's growl reverberate through his chest. "Stop complaining. You complain constantly about unimportant things like clothing and baths, and then say nothing when running leagues on blistered feet with a sword wound in your shoulder. You are the most perverse creature I have ever seen."

"And he's looked in a mirror, so that's saying something," said Kíli, and ducked away from his uncle's glare, grinning.

Thorin straightened, adjusting Bilbo on his back with surprising gentleness. "We march through the morning and put as much space between us and Azog as we can. We shall camp in the afternoon and plan our future paths then." He looked at Fíli. "How does that sound?"

Fíli stopped in mid-step and stared at him. "Why are you asking me?"

"Oh, come now," said Thorin. "You led this party while I was…" He stopped and swallowed.

"Not yourself," Kíli supplied.

"Not well," Thorin amended. "You led us wisely, as my Heir. And I would like my Heir's opinion."

"I--" Fíli looked rather like he might burst with happiness. "I think it's a good plan. But I'd suggest we take turns carrying Bilbo. After all, you--"

"--No," said Thorin. "Your advice is sound," he added hastily as Fíli looked crestfallen, "But if I am unable to carry Bilbo any further, we shall simply stop and camp at that point. He is no burden."

"You know, being discussed as if I were a bag of turnips isn't doing much for my self-confidence," Bilbo griped cheerfully from Thorin's back.

"If your self-confidence needs a boost after rescuing this entire party from the depths of Khazad-dûm, you are a far more insecure person than I thought," Thorin said. "Be content with our eternal gratitude--and let me carry you."

"Oh, very well," sighed Bilbo.

Balin looked back over his shoulder as they topped a ridge, gazing back at the eastern mountains. "'Tis a pity and a shame to flee from the halls of our ancestors," he murmured.

Thorin nodded. "One day, Balin, we shall return and take back what is ours." He turned to the west. "But today we thank Mahal for our lives and move on." A low chuckle thrummed through the leather beneath Bilbo's chest. "Mahal and Bilbo Baggins, that is."

"To Mahal and Bilbo Baggins!" chorused Fíli and Kíli, and soon enough were composing a marching song comparing the god and the hobbit, not always to the benefit of the god ("None of the legends claim Mahal can cook," Kíli pointed out).

The fur at Thorin's collar was soft and warm, despite smelling strongly of smoke and more faintly of orc. After a few moments, Bilbo stopped resisting temptation and nestled his cheek into it, nodding off listening to the song and smiling.

* * *

They camped at last as the sun was reaching its zenith, all of them weary, battered and exalted with the cold clean air and the sparkling sunlight and the joy of being alive. Bilbo tried to help, was roundly shouted down by all the dwarves and ordered to sit still, and ended up sitting on a log and watching with clear trepidation as Kíli and Fíli attempted to make rabbit stew.

Despite carrying Bilbo all day, Thorin's steps still felt light, his mind clear as the mountain air. He sang as he started the campfire--an old love song comparing the beloved's heart to _mithril_ \--and after a moment the other dwarves joined in.

The stew was quite edible, and Fíli and Kíli basked in Balin and Dwalin's praise. When Bilbo tasted it and declared it rather good, Thorin feared they might do themselves damage with their back-slapping.

"It is not as good as Bilbo's," Thorin said as he polished off the last mouthful.

"Well, _obviously_ ," said Kíli.

Thorin put down his plate and went to Bilbo's side, checking his shoulder. "The wound seems clean. It should heal well."

Bilbo winced as Thorin moved his arm, checking its flexibility. "Shouldn't you be reading that scroll?"

"The scroll has waited thousands of years, it can wait fifteen minutes more." Thorin clasped his uninjured shoulder briefly. "I will not neglect the well-being of those I care about again." He took Bilbo's chin in his hand and moved it left and right, making sure his neck still had a full range of motion. "You seem a little flushed," he said with a frown. "Are you feverish?"

"Me? No, no," said Bilbo, looking flustered. "Not at all. I don't think." He smiled, a small and tentative thing. "I'm just...glad to have you back."

Thorin considered brushing off the statement, contemplated pointing out that he had never been away. Then he merely nodded. "I am glad as well," he said.

He realized he still had Bilbo's chin in his hand--such a strange feeling, that unbearded chin. Months ago he would have said it felt vulnerable, nearly childish. Now he felt the subtle steel in the jaw, the complex strength in the sinews. Bilbo swallowed and Thorin dropped his hand. "If you are well, I shall look at the scroll," he said, his voice odd and formal in his own ears.

"I am--I am quite well," Bilbo said. "Quite well indeed." He nodded. "Read the scroll, Thorin."

Pulling the parchment from his pack, Thorin sat down to read his prize at last.

Most of the poem was exactly the same; Thorin's eyes skipped to the verse that had been corrupted in all the previous copies and his heart leapt to see that it was whole and legible in the version. Taking out his reading glasses--Dwalin gave him a curious look, but he ignored it--he peered at the ancient, looping handwriting.

"Well, if I'd had _this_ verse--" he snorted a few moments later. The rest of the party looked at him curiously. "It specifically says that whatever this item is, it isn't just emerald and alabaster, it also includes amethysts. I would have known it wasn't the glass right away." He felt a sudden sense of relief at the confirmation of the Lady of Lorien's words: _the cure is still out there!_

"What else does it say?" said Balin.

"Give me a moment, the handwriting is archaic." Thorin narrowed his eyes, tilting the parchment to catch the fading sun, and silence fell in the camp.

"You know what we need?" Bilbo's voice rang out in the anticipatory hush and everyone except Thorin looked at him. He pulled his pack closer and opened it, rummaging. "I think we deserve a treat." He lifted aloft a small, rather squashed paper package. "My viola tea, the last of my treats from the Shire. Just enough for one pot." He chuckled. "I thought I'd be gone from the Shire for no more than a few days. Anyway, I've been saving it for a special occasion, and I suppose being alive after all that qualifies, don't you think?"

"Yes, let's celebrate!" said Fíli.

"Well then," said Bilbo. "Would you put the kettle on, Kíli?"

"With pleasure, Mr. Boggins," said Kíli.

"It's Baggins," Thorin said absent-mindedly.

"I am aware of that," Kíli said with a dignified sniff as he pulled out the kettle and filled it with water from his canteen.

"Now, viola tea is very delicate," said Bilbo. "It's very easy to ruin it, so we must proceed carefully." He slit open the package with his penknife. "Thank goodness it never got wet."

"It smells nice!" said Kíli.

"Like spring," said Fíli.

Indeed, a sweet, grassy scent seemed to fill the clearing, touching the icy air with a whisper of flowers. Thorin took a deep breath of it, his attention riveted by the new lines. The Sindarin twined and twisted, and he painstakingly re-arranged it into Westron:

_Upon the fields of emerald, scattered bright_  
_In lands beyond the reach of vengeful waves_  
_Like amethyst and alabaster white_  
_The precious gift that Durin's People saves._

He squinted at the verse. What in the world did that mean? The artifact had been left in a field somewhere? Perhaps hidden in a barrow? But no, that would not be _upon_ a field…

As he scowled at the parchment, Bilbo poured water from the kettle into the battered little teapot he carried. "This is the tricky part," he said. "Viola tea should be a lovely light amber, but if you steep it too long it turns dark and bitter. The timing is terribly important." He hummed slightly under his breath for a moment. "I make my own, sometimes, with the blossoms that grow on my hill in the spring. Such pretty flowers, my favorites. In the language of flowers, they mean 'thoughts,' you know. I always gave my mother a bunch for her birthday, to let her know I was thinking of her."

He was chattering in that charmingly scattered way he tended to when he was a bit nervous; Thorin felt himself smiling, enjoying the sound of it once more. He looked back up at the beginning of his verse, re-reading the lines he knew by heart.

_When golden thoughts to gentle darkness turn_  
_And shadows form within the gilded heart_  
_Then shall the fevered mind no longer burn_  
_And Durin's Scourge shall finally depart._

He frowned at the words. There was something about them...

"--and part of what I loved was all the different names," Bilbo was going on. "It seemed like there were a thousand funny names for violas--I went around the Shire once as a boy and made a list of them, actually. Heart's delight, heart's ease, three faces in a hood, love-in-idleness…"

Wait.

Thorin's breath caught as his eyes raced to the second verse:

_To save the soul from dragon's dreadful bane_  
_Requires idle love in sweet repose;_  
_A heart that's eased from anguish and from pain_  
_Is like a blossom that unblighted grows._

"...tickle-my-fancy, come-and-cuddle-me, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me--whoa, whoa now, those are flower names, not requests!" Bilbo sputtered as Thorin leapt up and advanced on him, looking ready to sweep him entirely off his feet. He looked startled, but not exactly disapproving. "What are you--"

Thorin stopped short, remembering Bilbo's injured arm, and merely seized his hands, clasping them tight. He felt a sudden urge to drag Bilbo into a dance of sheer joy. "The tea," he said, urgency choking his words. "It's the tea." Bilbo was staring at him, and he realized he was grinning, nearly laughing. "Don't you see? It's not an item, it's not an artifact--it's a _medicine._ " He grabbed the empty packet and brandished it. "Golden thoughts to darkness turn," he said. He pointed to the kettle. "Shadows form within the gilded heart. _When you steep it long enough._ "

Bilbo was staring at him. Behind him, Fíli gasped. "Idle love. The heart that's eased. _Love-in-idleness and heart's-ease._ "

"No," said Bilbo. "That's not--" He shook his head blankly. "No."

Thorin wanted to shake him, wanted to embrace him. "The new verse describes amethyst and alabaster scattered on a field of emerald. I saw it in Galadriel's Mirror--the flowers growing on the hill above your house, Bilbo. The flowers that make a tea that will cure dragon-sickness."

"But that's--" Bilbo snatched the wrapper from Thorin's hand and stared at it, his eyes wild. "That means I carried it with me," he said. "I had it with me _the whole time_?" He looked up and Thorin saw that his eyes were full of tears. "But if I had known--you would have had it in Bree months ago," he wailed. "You've wasted so much time!"

"No," said Thorin. Without thinking, he reached out to brush the tears from Bilbo's lashes. Behind Bilbo, Fíli was beaming, and Thorin remembered the new confidence in his Heir's bearing. He remembered pain, and he remembered peace.

"I would not call it a waste," he said.

* * *

They steeped the tea until it turned a deep purplish-black, then made Fíli and Kíli drink a brimming cup each over their bitter complaints. "It probably only cures the sickness once contracted," Thorin said, "But better safe than sorry."

"I'm rather sorry right now," Kíli said, grimacing. "This stuff tastes terrible!"

"It would taste delicious if brewed right," Bilbo said, bridling. "It's not the tea's fault you ruined it."

"Peace, Bilbo," said Thorin, pouring out a half-cup for Balin and Dwalin. "It is perfect for our purposes."

"Shouldn't you drink some, Thorin?" Bilbo asked, swirling the last dregs in the teapot as Balin and Dwalin dutifully swallowed their doses. "I mean--" He stopped and looked somewhat chagrined, then forged on. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

"I shall have what's left," Thorin said. Bilbo emptied the remainder into his cup, and Thorin lifted it to his lips. It was bitter and sharp, and seemed to burn down into his chest like a dark and purifying flame. He remembered a different burning, deep in the heart of Khazad-dûm. "But I believe I have found my own path to a cure," he murmured as he finished off the tea.

_And when at last you see your treasure true,_  
_If sacrifice and love can fill your soul,_  
_The dragon's curse shall lose its hold on you_  
_And clarity of vision make you whole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I point you to [Sketches from Clarity of Vision](http://saraduvall.com/post/73073287083/some-late-night-sketches-inspired-by) by Saraduvall?
> 
> And two [delicate and lovely manips](http://mr-boggins.tumblr.com/post/78873718175/but-i-believe-i-have-found-my-own-path-to-a-cure) by Mr-Boggins! Filiandkiliheirsofdurin also kindly gifted us with [two beautiful manips](http://filiandkiliheirsofdurin.tumblr.com/post/110028336049/clarity-of-vision-chapter-22-vs-chapter-23-by)!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party makes its way back to the Shire as winter starts to set in.

The innkeeper stared as her door banged open. "Ale!" bellowed a balding dwarf with blue tattoos on his head. "Ale for thirsty travelers!"

"Some food would be nice as well," added a smaller voice, and she blinked at the sight of a travel-stained hobbit among the dwarves.

"We don't get many of your kind these ways, Master Halfling," she said, fetching six flagons and polishing them off with her apron. "Where are you coming from and where are you going?"

They seemed to find the question amusing somehow. "Well, I'm from the Shire and I'm going to Erebor with them," said the hobbit. "Or, they're from Erebor and are going to the Shire with me."

"Sometimes it feels like we're from everywhere and are going nowhere," said one of the younger dwarves.

The tattooed dwarf drained his flagon and slammed it down on the table. "But wherever we're going, we're going together, and nothing's going to stop us!"

The others made loud sounds of approval and clinked their flagons together.

"Well, you're a far sight from either Erebor or the Shire right now," the innkeeper said as she put a plate of meat and cheese on the table. "Even on horseback, the Shire's days away to the northwest."

The dwarf who seemed to be their leader rose to speak to her, drawing her aside as the others dug in with relish. "We shall need mounts. The fastest you know of." He smiled slightly at the innkeeper's dubious look and reached into his pocket. "Despite our appearance, we can pay well," he said.

Blinking at the sapphire he held out, the innkeeper dropped a quick curtsey. "My husband runs the stables and can sell you the finest horseflesh this side of the Misty Mountains!"

"We shall visit him in the morning," said the dwarf. "For now, food and drink and comfortable beds are all we require." His smile was weary but warm. "I don't suppose you have any viola tea?"

"You can make a tea with violas? Never heard of such," she said.

He looked thoughtful. "It seems to be a variety local to the Shire," he said. "Apparently the Shire is the source of many wondrous things."

He returned to his meal, leaving the innkeeper puzzled, for she had never heard of anything particularly wonderful coming from the stodgy old Shire.

* * *

They rode out in the morning on the five fastest ponies the innkeeper's husband could provide, covering the leagues at a steady but not breakneck pace. The road was unreliable, disappearing entirely for long stretches of time that led to much backtracking and cursing as they followed the Glanduin westward. The weather grew bitterly cold as the days drew on; the river formed delicate crusts of ice along the edges and the ponies' hooves rang against the frost-hardened ground. Bilbo's shoulder healed slowly but cleanly, and although Thorin pressed them on, his urgency was less fierce and more lucid. He had time for songs, and energy for eating, and he laughed when his nephews clowned and joked.

Their physical hurts were not the only things healing.

The ground grew boggy and treacherous, and Bilbo's little black mare (he named her Viola, of course, but privately felt she was not as intelligent as his Daffodil) shied as her hooves crunched through ice and into brackish water beneath. One morning Bilbo heard Fíli cry out and looked up, following his pointing finger to where six great white swans were flying in formation, their long necks stretched south. Their cries echoed down to the landbound group, a cheerful honking.

"Too bad they're out of bow-reach or we'd have roast swan for dinner," said Kíli, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up. He didn't sound particularly disappointed.

Bilbo watched the swans soar away toward the sea, the morning sun rose and gold on their white wings, until they were out of sight.

They started to see abandoned houses, their frames sagging askew, empty windows like dead eyes staring. "Tharbad," Thorin said. "It was abandoned after the Fell Winter, when the rivers flooded."

Bilbo shuddered as an owl hooted from the skeletal rafters of a ruined house. "I remember that time. I was just a child when the white wolves came over the river, but I'll never forget the sound of their howling." Fíli and Kíli exchanged amused glances. "What? There was nothing at all funny about the Fell Winter, let me assure you," Bilbo said rather curtly.

"It's just--we forget how young you are, sometimes," said Fíli. "You don't seem it. I was the age you are now when the Fell Winter came."

"It was good hunting, that winter," said Kíli with a sharp grin.

"And you complained constantly of the cold," added Thorin, causing Kíli to blush and fall silent.

The sun was sliding down the sky, but Thorin refused to camp in the ruins of Tharbad, and no one disagreed with him as they crossed the crumbling stone bridge to the west side of the river.

* * *

The road grew more reliable, changing from a rutted dirt track to paved stone, although frost-bitten grass grew thickly between the stones this far from any city. "We call this the Greenway," Bilbo said. "Though it's not very green right now, is it? It goes straight to Bree, but if we take a left at Sarn Ford we'll enter the Shire." Despite the cold, his spirits rose as they drew closer to his home. He even finished "The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late," and performed it in front of the campfire one evening, to cheers and approval from the company. 

"I wish we had some wassail," he said wistfully as he took his bows. "It's nearly Yule Week in the Shire--everyone will be picking out their Yule logs and preparing their stars."

"Preparing their stars?" Balin said, eager as always to hear some new bit of hobbit customs.

"Oh, you don't give stars at the end of Yule? How strange." Bilbo took a moment to contemplate this oddity, then went on: "It's the tradition on the last day of Yule, the Star Festival, to give your--well, your sweetheart--a star of some sort. We usually make them out of paper or wood, and some people make star-shaped biscuits. My mother carved my father a star from a piece of quartz before they got married, that was considered quite romantic." He laughed softly. "I only gave one, to a--" He faltered, then went on, "--a lad I had rather a crush on. I went early in the morning and made a star in the snow outside his window with my footprints, so he'd see it first thing in the morning. He never found out who did it." He cleared his throat and took a drink from his canteen, looking down at his feet. "He's married now. Has seven adorable children."

"We don't do anything like that," said Kíli rather sadly. "I mean, we have the Ceremony of the Moon around the same time, but that's serious stuff, nothing romantic or fun."

"Oh, Yule is the most fun!" said Bilbo, brightening. "We go skating and sledding, and there are dances and games--snap-dragon and blindman's-bluff and forfeits, pass-the-slipper and squeak-piggy-squeak--" Kíli and Fíli's eyes were wide with amazement, and Balin and Dwalin looked like they were stifling giggles. Thorin, on the other hand, was listening gravely with his eyes narrowed, as if he feared he might be called upon to explain the rules of squeak-piggy-squeak. "And we sing all of the traditional star carols and the songs of Yarndo--"

"Yarndo?" Balin asked politely, his eyes dancing.

"You don't know Yarndo?" Bilbo found himself legitimately shocked. "I thought everyone knew the Tale of Yarndo! He's the whole reason behind the Star Festival, after all." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in amazement at the circle of blank faces, then recited carefully: "During the Time of Great Famine, Yarndo built a ship of silvery beechwood and sailed to the uttermost West, to the Land of Plenty, where he asked the Fair Folk to have mercy on his people. And they had pity on him, and they heaped his boat full of good food--oranges and bread and cider and taffy--and they polished his ship until it shone like silver in the darkness, and hallowed it so it could sail through the air, and it became the Morning Star. And thus every Yule we give each other stars for mercy and for love, and are thankful for all the plenty and happiness in our lives." He shot Thorin a narrow look. "What _exactly_ is so funny?"

Thorin's shoulders were shaking, but his face remained serious--apparently with some effort. "I believe your Tale of Yarndo has...some precedent in the writings of the elves," he said. "But the taffy and oranges are a uniquely hobbit addition."

"Well, I think it sounds lovely," sighed Kíli.

"Do you think maybe we'll be able to stay through Yule?" Fíli asked, giving his uncle an imploring look.

"We are in haste," Thorin growled. "But...the Misty Mountains may be impassible for some time, and perhaps we can spare a week," he added.

Fíli and Kíli chortled in delight, and Bilbo contemplated his neighbor's reactions to having five dwarves visiting for Yule. 

The Baggins in him was rather horrified at the thought, but part of him--it must be the Took--was surprisingly gleeful.

* * *

"How much farther do you think it is, Bilbo?" called Dwalin.

"We're almost to Sarn Ford, and once we cross the Brandywine we'll be in the Shire," Bilbo said. "After that it's probably another half-day's ride to Hobbiton and Bag End."

Dwalin cast a wary eye to the southwest. "I don't like the look of those clouds," he said.

Balin flexed one hand on the reins, wincing. "My bones say it's a storm."

"We shall just have to try to keep in front of it," said Thorin.

But soon enough the wind picked up and the first flakes of snow started to scud past the party. By the time they crossed the Brandywine, it was already gathering on the ground, and the wind was a steady howl that made speaking difficult.

"I know the way," called Bilbo over the gusts to Thorin. "Just follow me."

Snow dusted Thorin's beard and hair; he nodded and waved to the others to fall in behind Bilbo. 

Slowly, they made their way deeper into the Shire.

After a few hours Bilbo realized this was a storm nearly worthy of the Fell Winter: Viola pushed through the growing drifts with stolid patience, but by the time Bilbo spotted the Harwood to their left, the spruces like spectral figures in the storm-gloom, the snow was up to her hocks. There was an inn at Pincup, the Scarlet Spindle, but Bilbo found himself loathe to stop so very close to home, so he pushed onward, his heart leaping as he picked out familiar landmarks through the blowing snow: the great old oak on the Smallburrow farm, Bywater Pool, the Party Tree, and--at last, at last--a little green door nearly-covered with snow.

"We're home!" he called over the wind, and swung off his pony, floundering through the drifts to his dear familiar door.

It swung inward to admit Bilbo and a fair amount of snow; Bilbo _tsked_ but was too eager to get a fire going to worry about melting snow on his nice clean floors. There was a fine layer of dust on the furniture, but everything was still in place, tidied up as if he was going away for just a few days--was it nearly four months ago now? He piled logs and kindling in the fireplace and blew a spark into life. "That should help," he said, his teeth chattering.

The dwarves were still standing in the entranceway, looking around as the snow slowly melted from their cloaks. "Well, do get your wet things off," exclaimed Bilbo, "It wouldn't do to catch a cold during Yule!"

They came in slowly, looking around the cozy hole as Bilbo took their dripping cloaks and hung them up. 

"Give me a moment and I'll find us some food in the larder--nothing fancy, but there should be some dried fruit and jars of marmalade, that should be quite nice on our waybread while we wait for the storm to blow itself out. And tea! Of course we'll have--what's wrong?"

Thorin was still standing on the doorstep, a strange expression on his face as he looked into Bilbo's home. "I just...never thought I would see beyond the door," he said.

"Well, here you are at last," Bilbo said. "And my home is yours for as long as you like." He felt himself blush as he said it, and hoped Thorin didn't notice.

Thorin nodded slowly; he wasn't smiling, but there was a deep stillness in his eyes that made Bilbo feel content and restless at once, somehow. 

"Welcome home, Bilbo," he said, and stepped into Bag End.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shire is introduced to Bilbo's "friends from the East," and it's unclear which of the two will never be the same again.

Bilbo pushed his plate away and sighed, patting his stomach. Honey and jam improved waybread immensely, in his opinion.

Dwalin was scraping a dribble of spilled jam off the table with a piece of bread, and Fíli was licking honey off his fingers. Balin was already curled up in a chair in front of the fire, reading a book of Shire history. The fire was burning nicely, though it guttered sometimes as gusts of stormy wind rattled down the chimney, and Bag End was at last cozy and comfortable.

"Fíli, Kíli. Wash the plates," said Thorin. "And no juggling," he added as they bounced to their feet.

"Yes, uncle," they chimed sadly.

Over the sounds of their quarreling over who would wash and who would dry, Bilbo slipped away and returned soon after with two bottles clasped in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. "As near as I can tell, it's the first day of Yule Week," he said, "And it's traditional to have a toast of red wine to welcome in the Yule." He uncorked the wine--the _pop_ of the cork summoned Fíli and Kíli from the kitchen as if by magic--and poured it into six of his second-best glass goblets (no need to take _foolish_ risks, after all).

"To the stars of Yule," he said solemnly as they lifted their glasses, "And to good food and better friends, to comfort and safety."

They clinked glasses and drank deeply.

"I must say, it's good to be home," Bilbo said as he refilled their glasses. "And to--"

The door burst open and a snow-covered figure stood there, brandishing twin daggers. "Halt and declare yourself, strangers, in the name of the Bounders!" The hobbit on the doorstep blinked as she spotted Bilbo, and her aggressive glare melted into confusion. "Mr. Baggins, is that you?"

"Why, Portula!" Bilbo beamed at the unexpected visitor. "How nice to see you. Though my home doesn't need defending, thank you very much." He bustled up and ushered her in, closing the door behind her against the blizzard. "Would you like a glass of wine, my dear? Patrolling in such weather must be chilly work."

"I saw smoke from your chimney and I thought--but where in the world have you _been_ , Mr. Baggins?" The Bounder was sneaking curious glances at the dwarves, her eyes wide.

"I've been--well, I've been here and there," Bilbo said, laughing as he pushed a glass into her hand. "Out and about, you know."

"We were worried you were dead!" Portula drained the glass and coughed. "The Sackville-Bagginses, they--"

"Oh dear, let's not talk about such horrid topics during Yule," sighed Bilbo. "Let me make introductions instead. Portula Pott, let me introduce you to Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Fíli and Kíli."

Five deep bows and a chorused "At your service" left Portula blushing and flustered, but smiling. "Nay, I'll hear all of your tale another time," she said as Bilbo moved to refill her glass. "I must get back to patrol--and tell people of your return!" From her grin, she was relishing the idea of seeing peoples' reactions to the news of these strange visitors.

"Everyone will know by tomorrow morning," said Bilbo as he turned back to his guests. "Shire gossip is the most efficient message-delivery system in Middle Earth."

"Any more of this?" Dwalin lifted the second bottle, now empty, and Bilbo scurried to get two more bottles from the cellar.

Soon enough they were all feeling quite relaxed and warm; Kíli had insisted on wearing a doily like a hat over Bilbo's protests, but on the whole destruction of personal property was at a minimum. 

"I suppose we should get some sleep," Bilbo said, rising and blinking as he discovered the room was a bit wobbly. "Let's see...we can put Balin and Dwalin in the guest room, and Fíli and Kíli in the spare room, and…"

"Is this your room?" Fíli hollered from that direction. "It's nice and big. We'll just drop Uncle Thorin's things off there, he can sleep on the floor."

"Well now, I don't think--" Bilbo hurried into his room to discover Thorin's bedroll already laid out neatly on his floor. He blinked at it.

"I shall sleep in the library," said Thorin from behind him. 

"Don't be silly," Bilbo said. He was warm and sleepy and he hadn't slept in his own bed for a quarter of a year, and he didn't feel like wasting time discussing sleeping arrangements. "You snore the least of all your party and he's right, there's more than enough room here." He gingerly lifted the coverlet, relieved to discover no mice had moved in for the winter, and stripped to his underclothes. He could hear Thorin undressing behind him and felt his face heating with more than wine-- _Don't be ridiculous, Baggins!_ he told himself sternly. _You slept right next to each other for months on the road!_ Which was true, but somehow it was different having Thorin in his home, _in his bedroom_ \--

"Maybe I'll be able to show you around Hobbiton tomorrow," he said sleepily to take his mind off it. "I think things are clearing up."

"You may be right," Thorin said. His voice had that thoughtful, musing tone that said his mind was elsewhere, but it didn't sound ominous the way it had those long, terrible days going down the Anduin. It sounded warm, comfortable. Bilbo would have said it sounded happy, except he realized he had no idea what a happy Thorin would sound like.

He fell asleep still wondering.

* * *

The hobbit behind the counter blinked as his grocery door banged open to admit six snow-covered figures. "Willy!" cried Bilbo. "I'm surprised you're open already after that storm."

"Why, Bilbo! I heard you was back in town," the grocer said said. "And that you brought company." He eyed them with curiosity that stopped shy of hostile but quite a ways from friendly.

"Yes, yes. Everyone, this is Wilibald Bolger. He's my second cousin's husband. Willy, these are my friends from the East." He introduced the dwarves in turn, who bowed politely.

"Well now, well now," said Wilibald. "Can I be helping you?"

"I would like your viola tea," said Thorin.

"Certainly, sir. Shire specialty, that is." He turned to reach for a package on a high shelf. "How much would you like?"

"All of it," said Thorin.

As the flabbergasted Wilibald filled their bags full of packages of tea, Bilbo asked when the roads east might be open again.

"After that storm? Shirriff Stonecrow says it'll be a week or more until the roads are passable again."

A muffled whoop of delight came from Kíli's direction, but he quickly turned back to his contemplation of a sack of potatoes when Thorin shot him a glance.

They left the grocer's with their bags full and stepped back out into the dazzling cold, sun sparkling off the white drifts. Bilbo floundered through the snow for a while, then gave up and let Dwalin break a path before him, plowing like a ship through deep water. 

"--and I got cider for wassail, and some pine boughs to hang on the door and let everyone know we're home and celebrating," he was chattering. "It's far too late to get a proper Yule log, of course, but at least we'll have a hot drink for any carolers who come by."

He showed them around Hobbiton: the town hall, the mill, the stables. The tidy little forge next to the stables caught Thorin's undivided interest, and he insisted on being shown all the tools and equipment available, oblivious to the rest of his party getting involved in a spirited snowball fight outside. 

"Small, but satisfactory," he declared as he rejoined them. 

"Glad you approve," gasped a winded Bilbo, taking the opportunity to hide behind him. His cheeks were bright red in the icy cold and there was snow caught in his hair.

"Bilbo Baggins!" called a white-haired hobbit in a lavender dress from a doorway. "Come over here, child, and let me see you!"

"Aunt Belba!" Bilbo flailed through the snow to her house, and the other dwarves fell in behind him. "Everyone, this is my aunt, Belba Bolger."

"Bolger?" said Balin politely, "you must be related to the grocer, then."

She cast her eyes up, thinking. "I suppose I am! Yes, yes, Willy is my dear departed husband's second cousin's son." She chuckled, smiling at Balin. "I'm sure you'll never be able to keep us all straight, Master Dwarf."

Balin smiled back and bowed so low his beard dipped into the snow. "I am unlikely to forget a young lady as charming as yourself," he said.

"Oh my!" said the Widow Bolger, who was eighty if she was a day, and turned bright pink. "Well, Bilbo, I had heard you had some odd guests, but they seem quite lovely to me," she said.

Fíli chose this moment to dump a handful of snow down Kíli's back, but Aunt Belba seemed inclined to ignore the pair of dwarves wrestling in a snowbank. Dwalin teased Balin all through the rest of the tour, but Balin only grinned.

Back in Bag End, Bilbo unpacked his bag--"Potatoes, mutton, carrots, milk, some nice sheep's cheese, butter--oh, we'll have cottage pie tonight!"--and directed Fíli and Kíli to pin the pine boughs to the front door with a red ribbon. "Balin, Dwalin, if you would put these dried lavender sachets in the closets and drawers"--they sniffed them dubiously--"it will make everything smell less musty." 

He was singing under his breath as everyone left on their errands, something about ships and stars, and Thorin felt suddenly raw-boned and awkward in the tidy little kitchen. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Just keep me company," said Bilbo. "And peel some potatoes, I suppose."

Thorin applied himself to the peeling of potatoes with intense concentration. He remembered the dubious looks of the grocer, the nervous stablemaster, and felt a sudden frustrated anger rise in him. What had he been thinking? The Shire was no place for dwarves, and having them as guests would only harm Bilbo's standing in this insular, cozy world. They should leave as soon as possible, no matter what the condition of the roads--Bilbo wouldn't want to travel with them anymore, not now that he was home again, where it was warm and safe and comfortable--

His dark mood was broken by Kíli bursting into the kitchen, brandishing a handful of papers. "Letters for you, Bilbo," he announced.

Bilbo broke the seal on the first one and blinked at the contents. "Well, bless my soul," he said blankly.

Thorin couldn't resist: he peeked over Bilbo's shoulder at the letter, written in rich brown ink on thick white paper.

 _My dear Mr. Baggins,_ said the graceful handwriting, _Please forgive my oversight in not sending you an invitation to the Took Yule Ball, but your extended absence led me into a lapse of etiquette. We would greatly enjoy your company here at the Great Smials, and wish to extend an invitation to your guests as well. Mrs. Belba Bolger has vouched for their character, and if my favorite grammar-school teacher approves of them, I am certain they shall be a delightful addition to the festivities._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Citrine Took_

"The Yule Ball in Tookland is one of the biggest social events of the year," Bilbo said. "And we're all invited!" He grabbed up another letter. "And this is an invitation to Brandybuck Hall for an evening of games, and this is Jago Boffin telling me of a skating party in Bywater--" He looked up at Thorin, his face shining. "Well now, you dwarves seem to be quite popular! This is shaping up to be the most festive Yule ever around here," he chuckled. Then his expression shifted without transition to panic so stark that Thorin jumped to his feet. "Oh dear, you have no waistcoats! We must get you to the tailor--right away, right away, no time to lose! You need waistcoats and braces and maybe a nice cravat--" He was bustling them out of Bag End, shooing them like startled chickens out the door, and Thorin realized that the moment to slip quietly away from the Shire had passed irrevocably. Like it or not, they were here for Yule Week and the Star Festival; like it or not, they were part of Bilbo's life here for now.

As Bilbo herded them toward the tailor's shop, babbling of ascots and cuffs and collars, Thorin couldn't help but realize that he liked the idea much more than he had ever expected to.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuletide in the Shire: dancing, skating, and an exchange of stars (and perhaps a little more). A joyous Star Festival to all of you kind enough to come along on the journey so far!

"...and then dodge to the right, and turn, and retreat once more." The paper spread on Bilbo's dining room table was covered with crosses, circles, and lines; Thorin drew another arrow from one of the circles with emphasis and nodded. 

"And after that?" Fíli and Kíli leaned over the table, their faces creased in worry. Balin was chewing on a pencil, and even Dwalin looked concerned.

"After that, as near as I can tell, it will become necessary to pivot to the left and advance boldly to engage the opposing party once more in the center, here." Thorin's pen gouged a hole in the paper and he frowned at the blotted surface. "No hesitation, do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle!"

"What's this?" Bilbo said, peering around Dwalin without warning. The dwarves all jumped. "Sorry. But I don't really think it's 'sneaking' in my own home," he added.

"Of course not," Thorin said. "We were just discussing...strategy."

"Aren't these dance steps?"

Fíli cleared his throat. "Portula mentioned there might be dancing tonight. She told Uncle Thorin the basic steps, and he was teaching us."

Bilbo looked at Thorin, who was studying the diagram with narrowed eyes. "It's easier to show than explain on paper," he said.

Almost before the sentence was done, Fíli and Kíli had pushed the table to the wall to clear the room. "Show us!"

Bilbo laughed. "I'm not the best dancer in the Shire. Far from it. But here--let's go through the basic steps. You start with two lines of dancers--the Dusk line and the Dawn line, we choose by lots." He herded them into two lines of three. "Dawn always makes the first move, of course--step forward like this and then…"

A half hour later everyone was breathless and rosy-cheeked from swinging each other around and stamping their feet.

"You'll do fine," announced Bilbo, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Then he glanced at the clock and straightened up hastily. "Oh, we must get back to the tailor's! She said your clothing would be ready by now. It's a shame we don't have time to make you proper calling cards as well, but we're just lucky Miss Rosamunda was willing to make a rush job on those clothes."

He was chattering happily as he shooed them out the door and back into the cold, but Thorin was still going over dance diagrams like battle plans in his head.

* * *

Thorin looked at himself in Bilbo's bedroom mirror and frowned. The dark gray jacket and trousers were cut correctly, and the sapphire-blue silk waistcoat was a trifle snug but seemed to fit him well. The pale gray piece of cloth Bilbo had called an ascot seemed to be tied properly, at least based on the tailor's instructions. And the gray silk gloves were large enough for him, thank Mahal. And yet--scowling, he tied his unruly hair back with the blue ribbons the tailor had included, until it hung straight down his back in a long queue. That looked--well, at least more consistent, he concluded, examining his image grimly one last time before going back to the parlor.

What he found there made his jaw drop. "By Durin's beard, what are those things?" 

Fíli and Kíli lifted the offending items in a brief salute before settling them firmly back on their heads. "They're the most fashionable top hats in all of the Shire, Uncle!" Kíli announced. "All the young people these days are wearing them."

"You look ludicrous," Thorin grumbled. "Promise me you're not wearing one," he said to Balin, who was dressed in russet wool and a cream-colored waistcoat.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Balin said with a wink.

"Oh!" said a voice behind them. "You all look quite fine. Quite fine indeed." Bilbo was smiling at him and tugging at the lapels of his own bottle-green suit, looking pleased. "Now remember, just follow my lead and do as I do, and you'll be on your way to becoming honorary hobbits in no time."

* * *

The evening was going better than Thorin had expected, to be honest. There had been some small errors of social manners--apparently blowing your nose loudly was considered rude in hobbit society, but Thorin wasn't sure how Kíli was supposed to have known that; and Dwalin managed to offend some hobbit lady with a perfectly reasonable compliment. 

"But fortunately he picked Lobelia to say it to," Bilbo explained in a whisper as she flounced off, "And frankly, no one cares if Lobelia Sackville-Baggins is offended."

But other than these minor trespasses, there had been no major problems, and the good people of the Shire had seemed to decide that such "colorful and fascinating characters" (Citrine Took's words) were allowed to be a bit unorthodox. 

And so Thorin found himself in a corner of the Great Smials, sipping a cup of mulled cider and watching a variety of young hobbits flirt outrageously with Fíli and Kíli. Dwalin was having an animated conversation with one of the musicians currently on break, and Balin was--Thorin blinked--deep in discussion with the Widow Bolger. Bilbo was at the center of a ring of wide-eyed hobbits, relating tales of his adventures. From his gestures, Thorin inferred that he had gotten to the undead of Fornost stealing his mother's umbrella.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, Thorin thought, taking another sip of cider and trying to look regal and aloof rather than awkward and uncomfortable. 

As no one was approaching him, it seemed to be working. Good.

Yes. Good.

There was an imperative clapping sound, and the hubbub faded as Adalgrim Took, Citrine's partner, stepped forward. "If everyone has had enough to eat--" 

"--Never!" came a faint cry from the crowd, and everyone laughed.

"--and is feeling relaxed and merry, we are ready to begin the dancing!" Applause broke out as Adalgrim waved to where Citrine stood with a basket filled with slips of paper. "Draw lots to see who is in which line!"

From the buzz of anticipation and giggles among the young hobbits, Thorin gathered that it was of vital importance that you draw a different line than one's current object of affection, as members of the same line never met in the dance. A rosy-cheeked lad with straw-colored hair was trying to sneak an unobtrusive peek at Kíli's slip, and others were comparing theirs with squeaks of delight or pouts of disappointment. Thorin took another sip of cider and--

\--a basket appeared in front of his nose. "You'll be joining us, of course, Mr. Thorin?" announced Citrine Took, shaking the slips of paper at him.

"I--" Thorin looked around for someone to inform his hostess that the Heir of Erebor was a notorious killjoy and grouch who never participated in such frivolous activities. No one seemed inclined to do so. "I thank you," he said, and took a slip.

"You're Dusk!" Bilbo was at his elbow without warning. "I drew Dawn," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling.

"I hope I don't smash anyone's toes," Thorin said as Bilbo grabbed his arm and dragged him to the center of the hall. 

"Impossible. We have pretty sturdy toes."

Thorin _harrumphed_. "Most people would reassure by saying 'Of course you are far too graceful to trample anyone,' not 'Don't worry, you won't hurt us much.'"

Bilbo laughed. "You have pride to spare, my Prince, I don't need to coddle it," he said, tugging him into line. As he released Thorin's arm, he leaned close and murmured, "You look spectacularly handsome this evening, by the way."

Then he took his place near the end of the opposite line, his eyes crinkling at the corners, leaving Thorin utterly dumbfounded--both at being called "my Prince" and at being told he was handsome by Bilbo Baggins.

The first notes of the fiddle and drum sounded and he was nearly caught flat-footed before bowing to a smiling Citrine Took and stepping forward to meet her as boldly as one would step onto the field of battle.

They turned and pivoted, and Thorin touched his fingertips to Citrine's for a moment as they circled each other and then changed partners. He linked arms with the next person in line, who happened to be a young hobbit who giggled all the way through their turn together. Small talk and flirtation buzzed around him under the music; the dance was clearly an excuse to have a brief moment of intimacy with one's light-o'-love, to exchange a compliment and a glancing touch.

Bilbo was six people away from him in the line.

Kíli was up next, his lips moving slightly to himself as he recited the steps of the dance. "Relax," hissed Thorin as they passed by each other in the middle, and Kíli shot him a sour look.

"You're one to speak, as you look so very at ease," Kíli muttered as they touched fingertips. He pivoted wrong, banged hips with Thorin and growled a Khuzdul curse under his breath as Thorin swung away once more.

Bilbo was four people away.

After two more changes, Thorin was starting to feel safe enough to actually manage a small smile and nod for his next partner. 

Bilbo was the next person in line.

"You are looking well yourself," Thorin observed as casually as if picking up the conversation where it left off, as if he hadn't been practicing it for the last five minutes. 

Touch fingertips. Touch palms. Pivot.

"Kind of you to notice," answered Bilbo as they moved past each other.

Turn and return. Link arms. 

Thorin realized he had prepared no second comment and found himself looking at Bilbo's smiling face instead. He stumbled and had to force himself to keep moving. "Not particularly," he managed before they parted.

Then he had to spend the rest of the dance wondering what in Durin's name that even meant. It wasn't particularly kind? He hadn't particularly noticed? He caught a glimpse of Bilbo's puzzled face receding down the line and hoped the halfling wouldn't be insulted at his lapse into gibberish. 

_Compose yourself, Thorin,_ he thought sternly. _You're a prince and heir to a throne; a scholar and a warrior. You will not be defeated by a simple country dance!_

As the dance ended, the lines broke down into laughing and chattering. Thorin watched Bilbo laughing with a young woman, his cheeks red with warmth and exertion, comfortable and at home. He looked over the girl's shoulder and his gaze met Thorin's, and he winked at him.

Thorin started to look for the exit.

There was a tug at his back; he turned to find Balin behind him, tweaking his long queue of ribbon-bound hair. "And where do you think you're going?" Balin said. "Oh, don't deny it. I know what it looks like when you're scanning for escape routes."

"Everything here is fussy and delicate. I fear I shall break something," Thorin growled. "I am going to the forge."

"The forge?" Balin's face wrinkled in confusion. "Dressed like that?"

"I'll change first, of course. I have things I need to do. Would you please tell Bilbo I'll return late to Bag End?"

"Very well, but--" 

Thorin didn't wait for him to finish; he paid his regrets to Citrine Took with a courtly bow that he hoped made up for his rudeness, and then fled into the icy night under the brilliant stars.

* * *

"Miss Rosamunda says she can't make you a second waistcoat until Yule Week is over," Bilbo said to a crestfallen Fíli. "She's low on cloth and time--apparently stars made from cloth-of-gold are all the rage for youngsters to give their sweethearts at Star Festival this year, and she's busy teaching a variety of sewing classes. Cloth-of-gold," he snorted. "Paper was good enough for us when I was a boy, and--"

The door banged open and Thorin entered, along with a cold wind and a fair amount of snow. "It's snowing again," he announced as if this were news to the party. "We shall never get out of the Shire at this rate." He threw himself into the armchair across from Bilbo's in front of the fire, making it creak at the impact.

Bilbo felt his chin lift. "I'm aware that life here is rather tedious to one as sophisticated and glorious as yourself, but you don't have to be so eager to escape."

Thorin shot him a glowering look. "And you do not have to be so eager to take offense, Bilbo. The Shire is quite pleasant. But I must return to Erebor as soon as possible." He scrubbed at his face with black-smudged hands.

"You're covered in soot," Bilbo said, wrinkling his nose. "You've been at the forge again--just what exactly are you _doing_ there at all hours?" For Thorin would not say, no matter how much his nephews nagged at him and Balin gave him curious looks. "And look at you--look at your hair, you're getting black all over my nice upholstery!" He _tsked_ in annoyance and Thorin twisted to look at the sooty marks on the beige cloth. "That's it, that is the final straw," he announced as he grabbed Thorin's arm.

Quite soon Thorin was sputtering as Bilbo dunked his head into a bathtub filled with hot water. "I'll refill it and get all of you in there after," Bilbo fussed. "Look at this, look at this water." 

Thorin blinked at the dark gray water, then winced as Bilbo started scrubbing soap into his hair. "I'm capable of washing my own hair," he growled.

"Could have fooled me," Bilbo retorted. "How you manage with this… _mane,_ I have no idea. You could at least tie it back when you're working. What _are_ you working on, anyway? New weapons? A nice royal teapot?" 

Thorin chuckled and scrubbed at his hair, upending a smaller tub of water over his head into the bath. "It is on the unruly side," he said, addressing Bilbo's first point and leaving the second markedly unanswered. "Perhaps I should cut it short, hobbit-style."

Bilbo felt his jaw drop. "Don't you dare!" he gasped without thinking, and Thorin shot him an odd look from between dripping strands of hair. "It's just--you wouldn't look like yourself without it, that's all." He grabbed a towel and started to dry Thorin's hair, running damp strands through his fingers. "I haven't combed your hair out since--since we left Khazad-dûm," he murmured.

He caught a glimpse of Thorin's face as he lifted the towel and was surprised to see there again that shadow of shame. "It is a servant's job," said Thorin. "I should have never let you do it."

"I don't care about such things," Bilbo scoffed to cover his confusion. "Come now, I'll prove it, you stiff-necked dwarf." He shooed Thorin to a chair, grabbed a comb, and began to work the tangles out of it. "The skating party is tomorrow night, and then Yule Eve carols," he said once the worst of the knots were out. 

"What is a _skating_ party?" Thorin asked as if the word were utterly new to him.

"Oh, it's a new fad from Bree, you'll like it, it involves wearing shoes. The oldsters refuse to do it, say it's unhobbitish, but the kids love it. Unless you refuse to go, of course. You're not going to snub the Boffins, are you?"

Thorin chuckled. He sounded sleepy. "Are the Boffins particularly dangerous to snub?"

"Well, they're safer than the Brandybucks, and you didn't deign to go to spend an evening with them. A shame, really. It was great fun. You should have seen Kíli playing squeak-piggy-squeak."

"I was busy," said Thorin. "But I shall make sure to go tomorrow. My work at the forge is done."

"Well, good." Bilbo took a last few passes with the comb through the heavy, clean hair. It smelled of chamomile soap, and he resisted a sudden impulse to run his fingers through it instead of the comb. "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time."

* * *

"I...am _not_...having...a lovely...time," Thorin announced as he sailed majestically (and inexorably) past Bilbo, doing his best not to gyrate his arms like an idiot. Where in the _world_ would a people get an idea to strap blades to their feet and slide around on ice? Hobbits were mad, all of them.

There was a shriek of laughter, and Thorin looked over to see a line of people skating, with Dwalin at one end. As he watched, Dwalin dug his skate into the ice and held steady, and the end of the line rotated in a dizzying circle around him, picking up more and more momentum until--

"Oh gracious," Bilbo had time to squeak before the line broke and a small hobbit hurtled into him and knocked him into a snowbank. Thorin managed to avoid a variety of skidding, flailing hobbits, only to have a dizzy Dwalin grab his arm and send them both crashing to the ice.

"Mr. Dwalin! Mr. Dwalin! Me next!" cried a chorus of young hobbit voices.

"You appear to be much in demand," Thorin said, disentangling himself, and Dwalin grinned sheepishly at him.

"Are you all right, Bilbo?" called Dwalin, struggling over to where Bilbo was extricating himself from his snowbank. 

"Perfectly fine, thank you," Bilbo said, dusting himself off.

Kíli and Fíli were playing some game involving a wooden disk and sticks on the far end of the pond. Balin had bowed out of the evening, announcing that he would prefer not to break any of his old bones. As he struggled to his feet, Thorin wished for a moment he had stayed back at Bag End with him.

An arm looped through his. "I'm not terribly good at this," Bilbo said. "Always preferred conkers to skating." His feet slipped and his free arm waved in the air. "Whoa. Thanks for--for keeping me steady. Shall we take a turn of the pond together?"

Thorin had some severe doubts about which of them was actually keeping the other steady. But as they joined the other pairs of hobbits skating arm-in-arm, he had to admit it seemed easier to keep his footing when he was skating by Bilbo's side. Was it that they could balance each other? Or perhaps that he was making an extra effort because he didn't want to let Bilbo fall? Yet it no longer felt like an effort at all.

They made the first turn without incident, and Thorin could feel Bilbo laughing quietly at his side. "Oh, I was just thinking," Bilbo said at his quizzical glance. "If someone had told me that the dwarf who knocked me down in Bree would be the only thing keeping me upright months later...well, I would have laughed at them."

Thorin remembered for a moment the bedraggled, mud-splashed, infuriated hobbit sitting in a puddle in the street of Bree, and found himself chuckling as well. He dug his skate in, pushing off, and they were skimming along the ice together, soaring like birds, and maybe it was just that everything was easier with Bilbo there.

* * *

"Good morning!" Bilbo called out into the stillness of Bag End. "And Happy Star Festival!"

Thorin pulled a pillow over his head. "It isn't even dawn yet," he said. Similar vociferous complaints from the other dwarves echoed through the hobbit-hole.

Bilbo grabbed the pillow and hit him over the head with it. "Yarndo's Star will fade away soon, we have to go see it now!"

Buttoning his jacket, he hurried to the front door and threw it open. "Oh!" On the doorstep was a tidy pile of packages: what seemed to be a rather large assortment of cloth-of-gold stars for Kíli and Fíli, and a plate of star-shaped biscuits from the Widow Bolger, addressed to "Mr. Balin."

"Hm," said Thorin's voice behind him. He was wearing his coat and boots, and looked moderately awake. "How do you feel about acquiring an Uncle Balin?"

"Oh dear," said Bilbo, blushing a bit. "Biscuits aren't _that_ serious as a star gift." He put the presents on the table and grabbed his cloak, throwing it around his shoulders. "Aren't the rest of you coming to look at the stars?" he called. A chorus of negation answered him, and he shrugged. "Your loss."

He and Thorin went out into the dim and silvery pre-dawn together.

Even in the lightening sky, the stars were clear and lovely, and the squeaking sound of Thorin's boots on the snow was the only thing that broke the hushed stillness.

At the crest of a low hill, Bilbo stopped. "That's Yarndo's Star," he said, pointing. From where they were standing, it seemed to be resting almost on top of a great fir tree, as if one could climb up and pluck it from the sky. Bilbo looked at it and felt a strange sense of familiarity. Where had he seen--

That's right, it was one of the flashes of vision he had seen in Galadriel's Mirror, the morning star shining from atop a tree. He was still staring at it in wonderment when Thorin cleared his throat. Bilbo looked at him and he made the same sound again, opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it once more.

"This is for you," he finally said, pulling a small black velvet bag from his pocket.

As Bilbo opened the drawstrings, something fell into his hand, and his polite thanks faded into a wordless gasp.

It was a brooch, a star made of delicate filigreed silver. On each of its myriad swirling arms were set clear gems that might have been taken for crystal but for the purity and depth of their luster.

Bilbo held the glowing diamonds in his cupped palms and felt his fingers begin to tremble.

He looked up at Thorin's face. "This is--I mean--Do you--" He knew what he was about to say was rude, but he had to say it, had to _know._ "This is not...a gift for a friend, you know."

"I _was_ paying attention when you explained hobbit customs," said Thorin. He looked faintly amused. "I understand what it means." He looked up at the star tangled in the tree branches. "I swear this shall not change anything from now, and I will not speak of it again. But you are...my heart's ease, and I wished you to know it. Just this one moment." He smiled at Bilbo, a small smile that seemed to take some effort. "A joyous Star Festival to you, Bilbo."

"Wait." 

Thorin looked down at his sleeve where Bilbo had caught it as he turned to go.

"I just wanted to make sure you knew what it meant," Bilbo said. "Before I gave you this." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the little paper star he had hidden there, its silver foil intricately folded. "This is--well, this is for you." 

Thorin turned it over in his fingers, then let it rest in his broad palm. He gazed down at it without speaking for so long that Bilbo started to talk again to fill the silence: "It's just paper, of course--cloth seemed so _trendy_ this year, and I have no skill with wood, and a macrame star seemed a bit odd, so I went with paper--certainly not as _durable_ a material as silver and, um, diamonds, but I rather liked the final result. I mean, it's hardly fit for a prince, but--"

"--Bilbo," said Thorin. His voice was very low and his eyes were a great deal more beautiful than the sea. "You're chattering." He took the paper star and touched it briefly to his lips, then slipped it into his breast pocket, just over his heart. "I shall treasure it always."

"Well then." Bilbo bounced slightly on the balls of his feet. He could tell that he was grinning at Thorin like a lunatic, but he didn't really care, and Thorin didn't seem to either. "I'm glad that's cleared up." He undid the wooden brooch holding his cloak in place and pinned it with Thorin's gift, where it shimmered in the dawn like a star indeed. Then he looked up at Thorin and cleared his throat. "Shall we...shall we head back?"

They walked back to Bag End, side by side in the dawn, and when the sun broke across the horizon and bathed the snowy fields in light, Bilbo's hand found Thorin's. Thorin's fingers tightened around his and despite the cold, Bilbo felt warm right down to his bare toes.

Bag End was bustling by the time they got home, and if any of the party noticed that Thorin helped Bilbo out of his cloak and brushed some snow from his hair with fingers that might have lingered slightly, or that Bilbo happened to be wearing a brooch that could purchase Bag End, they chose not to mention it. Kíli fetched them both mugs of heated chocolate and Fíli pulled a platter of cheese and meat from the pantry, and everyone sat down to what Bilbo happily called the best Star Festival breakfast he had ever eaten.

They were clearing up the dishes when there was a knock at the door, and Balin opened it to find Portula Pott on the doorstep. "Big news!" she called. "The road to Bree is finally open once more, and the first wagon from there just arrived. But that's not the most interesting news," she added triumphantly. "The most interesting news is that there's a party of dwarves in Bree right now, on their way back to Erebor, traveling under a blue banner with a raven sigil."

Kíli and Fíli jumped to their feet as one.

"It's mother!" cried Kíli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mekare's [art of Fili and Kili in Hobbit clothing](http://mekare.dreamwidth.org/14064.html) is a thing of beauty!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Line of Durin is reunited with Dís and plans are made, while Bilbo is reunited with an old friend as well.

"Don't," Bilbo said without turning around as he heard Thorin come into the bedroom. He pulled a linen shirt out of its drawer, folded it carefully, and put it into his battered pack.

"Don't what?"

"Don't even bother," Bilbo said. He put his hands on his hips and dropped his voice into an exaggerated growl. "'It's a long journey, Bilbo, maybe a dangerous one, and you should stay here in your nice safe hole and not come with me.' I'm not even listening."

"You have never listened to me before." Thorin's grumble had no heat in it. "I certainly will not expect you to start at this late juncture."

Bilbo blinked. "Oh. So...why aren't you packing?" He waved a hand at Thorin's bedroll, still neatly laid out on his bedroom floor. "You heard Bounder Pott: the road to Bree is open! Your sister is there and if we hope to catch up to her, there's not a moment to lose."

"I know." Yet Thorin didn't move; his eyes traveled around the room, resting on the polished wood drawers, the striped quilt, the little glass jars on the windowsill. "I know."

Bilbo put down the silver-gray waistcoat he was folding and crossed the room to stand in front of Thorin. "It was spring," he said. Thorin's eyes focused on him, and he cleared his throat. "When Galadriel's mirror showed you Bag End, it was spring in the vision." Feeling greatly daring, he reached out and twined a lock of Thorin's hair around his fingers. "That means you'll be back."

"Perhaps." Thorin's voice was doubtful, but some of the darkness lifted from his eyes. "So, was that your best waistcoat I saw you packing?"

"Well, I might be meeting a king, after all." Bilbo tugged Thorin's hair lightly. "My second-best might have been good enough for a prince, but surely not a king."

Thorin's glower was as good as a smile. He opened his mouth to retort--

"Uncle!" Kíli burst into the room. Bilbo untangled his hand and moved to step away from Thorin, but Thorin's hand came down on his shoulder, keeping him close. Kíli didn't seem to notice at all. "The horses are ready, Uncle! Let's go!"

"Very well," Thorin said as his nephew ran out of the room again. He rolled up his bedroll and tied off his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. "I am ready."

"Well! You pack quickly," Bilbo said, grabbing a fuchsia paisley ascot and tucking it in a corner of his pack.

"I have been on the road for decades now," Thorin said. "I travel light."

"As long as you have the tea, you're probably set, after all."

"Indeed, I have everything I need," Thorin said, putting his hand to his heart and bowing slightly.

Bilbo remembered the little paper star he had tucked into his breast pocket and felt himself reddening slightly. He unpinned the diamond brooch from his lapel and slipped it into its black velvet pouch, then put the pouch into his pack with a small smile at Thorin. "Would you tell Kíli I'll be right there? Just a couple more things."

After Thorin left, he took the ring from his mother's jewelry box and clipped it to his watch fob, safe in his pocket.

After all, it never hurt to have a way to disappear when traveling through the wilds of the east.

* * *

The expression on Dís's face when her sons and brother burst through the door of the Prancing Pony was one of utter shock. "Mother!" cried Kíli and Fíli in unison, and jumped forward to throw their arms around her.

All the dwarves in the inn jumped to their feet, and for a time pandemonium reigned. Dwalin was slapping everyone's backs, Balin was buying everyone drinks, Fíli and Kíli were trying to talk at once over the din to a baffled Dís, and Bilbo was mostly trying to avoid getting trampled in the chaos.

_"Silence!"_

The room went still and everyone looked at Thorin.

"Those of you loyal to King Thrór, rejoice!" There was a fierce smile on Thorin's face. "We come with a cure to the king's illness, with the salvation of the Lonely Mountain! We return to Erebor in triumph!"

The dwarves broke into a roar, and then nothing at all could be heard over the din of flagons clashing together and a song that appeared to be a paean to the "glorious line of Durin." But Bilbo noticed when Dís made her way through the hubbub and seized Thorin's arm. "We have to talk!" he saw her mouth to Thorin, and Thorin nodded. He turned and met Bilbo's gaze unerringly, as if he were keeping track of where he was at all times, and nodded to him. Bilbo nodded back and gestured: _Go on, I'll be fine,_ and as they slipped from the room he dedicated himself to finding a corner where he could avoid attention as much as possible.

* * *

As the door swung shut behind them, Dís threw her hands in the air in a helpless gesture. "Where do we start?"

There was a bold streak of white in her hair that had not been there when Thorin left the Lonely Mountain: "a vein of mithril," his people called it, but it pained his heart to see it. "We start with me saying that it is a pleasure to see you again, my sister," he said, and pulled her into a hug.

She stiffened in his embrace for a moment, then wrapped her arms around him and squeezed fiercely. "My brother," she said. "I can scarce believe it. Here with my sons, and mad talk of a cure--"

"--Not mad," Thorin said. "A medicine, an herb that can heal. It grows only in the Shire."

"The Shire." She pulled away and paced across the room. "The home of the halflings. That halfling I met--he is with you today. Surely he has not stayed with you for the past four months!"

Thorin laughed at the expression on her face. "He has indeed, although at times with much reluctance. But he has proven to be a soul both brave and true, and Mahal blessed the day that you asked him to guide your sons and thus brought him into my--into our lives."

She looked at him keenly for a moment. "Since I was a babe, I have wondered what this would look like."

"What?"

"You happy," she said.

"I shall not truly be happy until my father and grandfather are healed and Erebor secure once more," he said, but his gruff tone was unconvincing even to himself, and she smiled. Then the smile slipped away.

"And you think you can just return in triumph to the Lonely Mountain with your fabled cure? I am afraid it shall not be so easy."

He sat down in front of the fire. "Tell me."

"Father is..." She sighed. "You must have suspected why I left Erebor."

"You feared for Fíli and Kíli's lives," Thorin said levelly.

She winced, as if hearing it said out loud hurt her. "I tried to convince Frerin to come as well, but you know Frerin. The moon rises and sets on his father, and he will believe no ill of him. But I have seen it in his eyes." She took a ragged breath.

"The dragon," said Thorin, and her gaze flashed to his in surprised recognition.

"Yes. That...greed, the consuming fire. Not like our grandfather, who has slipped into a haze of dreams of gold. This was something...crueler." She shivered, although the fire was merry and the room was warm. "By the time we left, none were allowed to see King Thrór but our father."

"Do you believe he was still alive?"

"Yes. Glóin's son is in the royal guard, you probably don't remember him--"

"--Gimli? But he is only a child."

"Much time has passed since you left Erebor, brother," she said with a thin smile. "Gimli was persuaded to look the other way for a moment, just long enough for his father to look inside and see that Thrór lived still. He did not recognize Glóin. He was..." She broke off for a moment. "Glóin said he was chained to the bed."

Thorin felt his hands clench. "We must hurry home."

"You are still banned from Erebor. You cannot simply walk through the front door." She met his eyes and seemed to read his thoughts, as she had so often as a small child.

"The secret door," they said in unison.

"You can open it for us from inside, and we will find our way to Thrór and bring him the cure."

"And Father?"

Thorin felt his throat constrict. "Once he drinks the medicine, he will come to his senses once more."

"Thorin--"

"--He will be cured," Thorin said, hearing the childish desperation in his voice. "And he will thank us for it, and we will be a family again."

After a moment, Dís went to him and put her arms around him, and he leaned into the embrace, and they said nothing else for a while.

* * *

Bilbo ducked a flying flagon and contemplated his options. He didn't want to interrupt Thorin and Dís, and he didn't officially have a room yet to retreat to. After a moment's thought, he slipped out the door and headed for the stables.

Viola stamped her hooves and blew hay-scented breath at him as he came in. "There you go," he said. "I stole some sugar lumps for you."

A high-pitched whinny of sheer delight bugled from four stalls down, and Bilbo nearly dropped his sugar at the familiar sound. "Daffodil!" he cried.

The golden pony pranced in place on seeing his face appear at her stall, then eagerly licked up the second sugar lump from his hand.

"My goodness, how did you ever get here?" Bilbo said.

"Ah, Mr. Baggins!" Benjamin Butterbur's voice rang through the stable. "I see you found your pony."

"Yes, I--but whatever is she doing here?"

"Didn't you get my note?" At Bilbo's expression, he scratched his head. "Maybe I forgot to send it. I meant to, though. Some elves brought her by and asked me to keep her safe for you. Quite a pony, quite a pony."

"She is indeed," said Bilbo fondly.

"You...won't be wanting her back right away, will you?" Butterbur looked worried and a little embarrassed. "When the elves told me that she'd made her way back to Rivendell on her own, that seemed like a quite smart little pony, and ...I hoped maybe you wouldn't mind if in payment for her room and board, I... well, what I'm trying to say is that Miss Daffodil is currently in a delicate condition."

"Oh!" Bilbo looked at Daffodil, who nickered complacently. "So there's a baby pony on the way, then? Well, maybe Bree is a better place for her than out on the roads anyway, and to be honest, I have no idea where I'd keep her at Bag End, so...perhaps I can trade her to you for the price of our room and board while we're here?"

Butterbur looked delighted. "I'll give her a nice home, Mr. Baggins, rest assured!" There was a crashing noise from inside the inn and he winced and looked over his shoulder. "I'd better get back to the dwarves, then. I've had all of your things put into our last remaining room--it'll be crowded, but it's a very nice room, I assure you! It overlooks the garden and…" Another crash. "Oh dear," he said, and hurried out.

Bilbo made his way up the stairs to the second floor and was going down the corridor when a door on the right opened and he met Dís's eyes. "Mr. Baggins," Dís said. "I thought it might be you. No one else in the inn is so quiet," she added, smiling. "May I...speak with you a moment?"

He followed her into the room and murmured his thanks as she gave him a cup of wine.

"Is it true that you will be accompanying us all the way to Erebor?" she said as he sat down. 

"That was my plan," said Bilbo, sipping his drink. "If you don't mind my tagging along. I can help with the cooking, maybe, to cover the cost."

"The cost is not important," she said. "You are quite welcome to travel with us." She gave him a long look. "I asked you to keep an eye on my sons, but you seem to have set your eye on a prince instead."

Bilbo felt himself flush. "Now, that's hardly fair," he said with some heat. "I don't care a fig for his rank or his title or any of those ludicrous things. He'd be brave and gentle and good whether he was King of Erebor or a wandering tramp, and I'd still--" His voice faltered into silence. "Sometimes I wish he _weren't_ a prince, because then he could stay in the Shire and we could--but he can't, I know that." He put down his wine and managed a polite bow. "My apologies, Lady Dís, but perhaps I should be taking my leave of you. You needn't fear I will interfere with the Line of Durin in any way."

"My apologies, Mr. Baggins," said Dís before he could make his exit. "I see that I have done you a disservice." She smiled wryly as Bilbo looked back at her. "I should have known my brother would never care for someone unworthy of him, for he is a proud and a stubborn one."

"Tell me about it," Bilbo said with feeling, and she threw back her head and laughed.

"Would you like me to? Stay, and we can share epic tales of the mule-headedness of my brother." Her smile this time was almost shy, and Bilbo remembered suddenly the baby gazing up in adoration at Thorin within Galadriel's Mirror. "If you will be so kind as to forgive my hasty words, Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo cleared his throat and picked up his wine cup once more. "My friends call me Bilbo."

Dís sat down next to the fire and took a long sip of wine. "Bilbo," she said as if trying it out. "Has Balin told you the story of the time Thorin decided to learn to swim?" At Bilbo's rapt headshake, she went on, "He was only forty or so at the time, and he'd read something in a poem about the ocean and got it in his head that he needed to know how to swim. Well, no one in Erebor knew how, so…"

Bilbo started to chuckle not long into the story, and then Dís got to giggling so hard she almost couldn't finish, and then Bilbo told her about the time they forded a river and a fish had gotten into Thorin's breeches. The morning sun found them still laughing and swapping stories when Thorin came the door (with a suspicious frown) to tell them the company was moving out.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road from Bree to the Misty Mountains is a smooth one. Only a few crises arise, such as goblin attacks and public speaking.

"Ow!" Bilbo said as he was jolted a few inches to the left. "I think I rather prefer travelling by horseback, all things considered."

Thorin looked up from the parchments he was studying. "Wagons are more practical for covering long distances at a steady pace," he said. "Oxen tire less quickly and can pull heavier loads." He waved at the boxes of tea and the supplies being brought back from Ered Luin. There had barely been room for the two of them, but Thorin had refused to evict anyone from their own wagon, so they had settled down among the groceries and mining materials. "There is also safety in numbers, and our cargo is too valuable to risk. If we are lucky and the mountain pass is open, we may well make Erebor in a month." The wagon shuddered as it hit another rock, and he winced. "Though I admit it has its drawbacks."

"I'm sure being undercover will be nice when it's windy or snowing," Bilbo said, indicating the canvas stretched in an arch over the top of the wagon. "But I do miss seeing the sky and the trees and everything."

"What a hobbit you are," said Thorin, amused. "One tree is much like another, and the sky is merely the sky, after all."

"A birch is nothing like a beech, and they're both completely different from a pine," Bilbo retorted. "And as for the sky--it's different every day and every hour. Who could tire of watching it? How you can bear to live sealed up in stone, I don't know."

Thorin opened his mouth as if to make some sardonic rejoinder, then closed it again and looked down at his parchments. Bilbo saw him swallow. After a moment he put the papers down and moved to the back of the wagon, where he untied a section of the canvas and opened it up. "Come here," he said.

Bilbo gingerly made his way to the back and sat down next to Thorin on the floor of the wagon, crossing his legs.

"What's that?" Thorin said, pointing.

"That? Why, that's a sycamore, of course."

"A sycamore," Thorin repeated. "And that?"

"A fir." Bilbo looked at him. "You don't expect me to believe dwarves really don't know any of this?"

"Obviously some of us learn such things," said Thorin. "But growing things are...not generally the province of my people." He pondered for a moment. "Let me ask you a question: what do you call the soft black rock you dig out of the ground that burns smokily?"

"That sounds like coal," Bilbo said.

"And what do you call the hard black rock that burns without smoke?"

"Well, that's coal too," said Bilbo. "Just...one is high-quality coal and one is low-quality coal. There are probably fancier Westron words for them, but I don't know them."

"Just so," said Thorin, looking pleased. "In Khuzdul those are two different rocks, just like your shikkymore--"

"--Sycamore."

"--yes, that, and your beech are different trees. In general we have two words for trees: _zurm-khubûb-ghelekh_ and _zurm-khubûb-zuz_."

Bilbo rummaged through his meager Khuzdul. "Tree-forge-good and tree-forge-bad?"

Thorin nodded. "Trees good for burning and trees not good for burning."

Bilbo considered this for a time. "That seems...kind of sad to me," he said finally. "But then, I suppose it's sad that I don't see a lot of differences in rocks and gems, for that matter."

There was a long pause as the wagon jolted along. "I suggest a trade," Thorin said. "I shall continue with our Khuzdul lessons, and in return you can teach me the names of the trees and plants we see."

"Oh," said Bilbo, "That sounds quite nice! It's a shame there are no flowers blooming right now, but perhaps I could sketch some for you and we could study that way."

Thorin nodded gravely. "Acceptable," he said.

So Bilbo spent the long day explaining the difference between an oak and a maple, and quizzing Thorin on different kinds of pines, and learning the Khuzdul for various items of clothing as well as reviewing the genitive case.

And at some point when the wagon hit a particularly rough patch of road, Thorin put his arm around him to steady him, and Bilbo decided he didn't mind wagon travel so much after all.

* * *

Their progress was plodding and steady, and the days fell into a routine as they headed east toward the Misty Mountains. After hearing Fíli and Kíli praising Bilbo's cooking extravagantly, the wagonmaster decided to put him to work helping with meals. This arrangement made Bilbo feel more useful, but had the drawback of making him run afoul of the official caravan cook, a fussy and meticulous dwarf with very strong ideas of proper cooking.

"He sounds quite a bit like you, actually," Thorin said one evening in their wagon, as Bilbo complained that mushrooms were never meant to be stewed when they could be braised, and was it _really_ necessary to use that much pepper on everything?

Bilbo sputtered in outrage, then subsided. "Well," he said after a moment, "There's nothing worse than two fussy people, you know. Because we're never fussy in the same way, and so it's bound to be a disaster."

Thorin took a bite of dinner and chewed thoughtfully. "You're right, though," he said. "Too much pepper."

"Well, of _course_ I'm right," Bilbo snapped, his outrage rekindled. "Can't you go out there and tell that murderer of meals to stop it? You're his prince, after all!"

"I was stripped of my title by my father, remember? I am just a common dwarf," Thorin said.

Bilbo burst out laughing.

"What?" Thorin felt annoyance prickle his skin.

"As if you are a common _anything_ ," chortled Bilbo.

"You did not think I resembled a prince when first we met," Thorin reminded him, and Bilbo turned a bit pink.

"I didn't have the faintest what a prince would even look like," he said. "Besides, it's different here, in front of your people. Do you really not see how they look at you? My dear Thorin, they act as though you're their king already."

"Hush," said Thorin, and made a quick sign against ill-luck. "I will not be king of Erebor for many years still."

"Everyone in this caravan would die for you, is what I'm saying. And you've been acting differently since we joined them, too. You really don't notice it?" he added curiously, looking at Thorin's face. "You're more...regal in front of them. More remote. Like a mountain in the far distance, grand and unattainable."

Thorin shrugged uncomfortably at the wistful tone to his voice. "Luckily I have companions like Balin and Dwalin, who know better than to take me too seriously."

"Not just Balin and Dwalin," said Bilbo. Thorin looked at him, and he smirked. "I believe Fíli and Kíli have learned not to take you too seriously either."

"That's a comfort," Thorin retorted, feeling obscurely relieved.

Bilbo finished up his meal with a few extra complaints and then tilted his head, frowning. "What's that sound?" It was a gentle rattling noise against the canvas stretched over the wagon. "It sounds like…"

He lifted the cloth at the back; Thorin looked over his shoulder to see a shifting gray curtain thrown over the hills that faded into the twilit distance. "This is good," he said.

"Rain is good?" Bilbo sniffed. "Seems like an extra hassle to me."

"It means warmer weather, and a chance that it will melt the snow from the passes," Thorin said. "We may get to Erebor even sooner than I thought." He let the flap drop and turned back to his work. "I may not be too late to save my father and grandfather."

"I still wish you'd speak to that dratted cook," Bilbo grumbled, but gave Thorin a crooked smile to show that he didn't mean anything by it. And so they traveled on through the dusk in a comfortable silence, listening to the rain patter on the cloth, the whistling of the driver and the snorting of the oxen.

* * *

The rain slowed them down now and then when wagons became mired in mud, but their progress was steady, and soon they were rising up into the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Bilbo looked slightly wistful when he realized they were going to bypass Rivendell, but even he had to admit that a few dozen dwarves might be a little much for the Last Homely House to handle.

The weather cleared again and Bilbo insisted on riding outside on one of the shaggy pack ponies, his breath steaming around him in the thinning air and his cheeks red with cold. Thorin rode beside him, looking back at the trail of wagons dotting the rutted road. His people.

They were raided by goblins once, late at night as everyone was cleaning up from dinner. Thorin couldn't find Bilbo in the chaos of gibbering shrieks and lowing oxen and felt panic grip him, then forcibly reminded himself that Bilbo had survived Moria perfectly well without him and returned to grimly slashing at the furious hordes. As the goblins began to flee, he finally spotted Bilbo fighting back-to-back with the fussy cook, armed with his knife and a frying pan as a shield.

"Why didn't you use the--you know?" Thorin asked him later, as the camp settled down for the night. He could hear drunken songs breaking out; everyone was still full of nervous energy from the attack.

"The--oh, the ring?" said Bilbo, sounding faintly surprised. "I guess it didn't cross my mind. It wasn't like I was going to duck out on Dori, after all," he added. "I've finally got him to understand how to properly cook venison, it would be a waste if he got himself killed."

Thorin hid a smile at the fact that the "dratted cook" apparently had a name at last, and turned back to his parchment, squinting at the angular lines. After so many years of reading Sindarin, Khuzdul almost looked strange to him sometimes.

 _Don't think about it,_ he told himself. _You are on your way home at last._

* * *

"What's wrong with Thorin? What do you mean? I hadn't noticed any change." Kíli didn't look up from the arrow shaft he was whittling. All around them, camp was breaking for the morning; the sounds of hammering and yelling surrounded them.

"The past few nights, he's been studying something to the point of not sleeping," Bilbo said. "He snapped at me when I was whistling, told me he needed to concentrate."

"Sounds normal to me," Kíli said with a grin. Then he looked at Bilbo's expression and sobered. "I don't know, Bilbo, truly. You say something is bothering him?"

"He was reading out loud a little in Khuzdul. I couldn't understand most of it, of course, but I thought I heard the words for 'silver' and 'mithril.'"

"That narrows it down greatly," said Kíli, his eyes dancing, and Bilbo huffed a breath.

"Point taken. And maybe something about a 'secret light'?"

A hand came down from behind Kíli and cuffed him lightly on the head. Fíli put his hands on his hips and glared at his brother. "It's the Ceremony of the Moon, you clot. You hear it every year--don't you even listen?"

Kíli stuck out his tongue. "Not often."

Bilbo ignored their teasing. "The Ceremony of the Moon? Didn't you mention that before? What is it?"

Fíli's face scrunched up and he scratched his nose. "Hey, Balin!" He waved Balin over. "Could you explain the Ceremony of the Moon to Bilbo? You're better at these things than I am."

"Well, now," Balin said comfortably, settling on the log next to Kíli. "There's a long history behind the Ceremony of the Moon, and it's important to remember that--"

"--The abbreviated version is fine," Bilbo said hastily. "I mean, we're moving out soon and I want to make sure I get the basics."

"Oh," said Balin, looking disappointed for a moment. Then he brightened: "In its simplest form, the Ceremony of the Moon is held on the night of the dark of the moon closest to the Winter Solstice, thus the darkest night of the year. On this night, we gather around great bonfires to mourn the death of the moon and implore Mahal the Maker to bring it back to us. We sing late into the night, until the bonfire dies out. It's one of our high rites, very solemn."

"Very _boring_ ," corrected Kíli, and Balin gave him a disapproving frown.

"Well, why is Thorin worrying about it so much?"

"Oh!" said Balin. "I hadn't thought--the Ceremony will be in two nights. It's a call-and-response chant, started by the highest-ranking woman in any community, and followed by the highest-ranking man. We--he and Dwalin and I, I mean--haven't celebrated it in years; it can't be done without a woman to start the chant." He scratched his head. "I'm thinking it likely he tried to get out of it claiming he wasn't a prince any longer, and I'm thinking it equally likely that Dís was having none of that. Now, in order to fully understand the Ceremony, it's important to go back to the dawn of time, when Mahal made the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves deep within the mountains of Middle Earth, crafting them in the darkness in secret."

Across the camp, Thorin and Bilbo's wagon lurched into motion, and Bilbo gave a squeak of alarm (mixed with some relief) and ran after it before he was left behind. Thorin was leaning out the back, holding out his hand with an exasperated look, and Bilbo grabbed it and was swung in just in time.

"Balin was telling me about the Ceremony of the Moon," Bilbo said as they settled in. "Will you be leading it with your sister?"

Thorin made a grumbling noise in his throat. "I told her Balin was a better choice."

"That's what you've been so irritable about," Bilbo said. "You're nervous."

"I am always irritable," Thorin said.

"This is a different kind of grumpiness from your usual baseline cantankerousness," Bilbo said. Thorin glared at him. "Oh, I don't blame you for being nervous," Bilbo added, pulling a needle and thread out of his pack. "Having to recite something in front of a big crowd--I'd be jittery too."

"It is not that," Thorin said. "Well, not entirely. It's that...it has been so long," he said softly. "I have not celebrated the Ceremony of the Moon for more than thirty years. Three decades I have been on the road, away from my kind. I fear sometimes that I have become…" He hesitated. "...un-dwarvish." He made a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "I do not believe I can express in Westron the wrongness of such a thing."

Bilbo frowned down at the sock he was darning. "I'm certainly no judge of dwarvishness," he said. "But I would think Balin and Dwalin and Dís would tell you if there were something wrong." He shrugged. "They adore you. Everyone here adores you, even if you _are_ irritable almost all the time." He looked up at Thorin and raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you don't trust their judgment?" Looking away from Thorin's wry smile, he cleared his throat. "So, am I allowed to attend this Ceremony?"

"You are part of our community. I spoke to Dís about it, and she agrees that you are an honorary dwarf and thus welcome at our rites."

"Well," said Bilbo. "You'd better tell me more about so I know what I'm getting into."

"Very well." Thorin got more comfortable on his cot and crossed his arms. "To begin with, you must understand the beginnings of the dwarven people, before the coming of either Elves or Men. Deep under Mount Gundabad, Mahal crafted the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, and kept them there in the secret darkness. Now it happened that…"

The story was a long and quite fascinating one, and involved Mahal coming to the greatest smiths of the dwarves "in the time of starlight" and leading them in the crafting of two great vessels of silver and gold, burnished to brightness. Bilbo listened intently as he stitched, enjoying the cadences of Thorin's voice and the way it blended with the creak of the wheels, the rustle of canvas.

After all, as the Old Took always said, "A long story for a long road is a blessing indeed."

* * *

"So I hear tonight is the big Ceremony," Bilbo said.

Thorin grunted without looking up from his papers.

"Nice coincidence that it came just as we reached the highest point of the High Pass," Bilbo added. "Good clear weather, too."

"Why do you not wear the brooch I gave you?"

"What?" Bilbo looked confused, and Thorin frowned.

"You have not worn the brooch since you left the Shire."

"I--Well, it seemed unwise to wear something so valuable in Bree. Lots of shady folk there, after all."

"We are no longer in Bree," Thorin pointed out.

"I--" Bilbo bobbed back and forth as if searching for the right words. Thorin waited. "I wasn't sure if you would mind or not. I mean, it's rather...conspicuous."

"I gave it to you," Thorin said simply. "I meant for you to wear it." He paused, considering. "Unless you prefer it be a private token."

"No, it's not--that is to say, I--"

A knock on the canvas at the back of the wagon broke off Bilbo's confused stammering, and Balin's head peeked in. "Thorin? Could you come and salt the bonfire?" He nodded at Bilbo's confused face. "For purification, of course."

"Of course," Bilbo echoed.

Thorin nodded and put down the parchments. "The Ceremony proper will not begin for a few hours," he said to Bilbo. "Balin will bring you if I am too busy."

Balin nodded and smiled; the canvas fell shut on Bilbo still standing in the middle of the wagon, his face wrinkled in concentration.

The wood was piled high for the bonfire; Thorin joined Dis in tossing a handful of salt on the pile and saying the correct words of consecration.

"You'll need this," Dís said, draping the ceremonial stole about his shoulders. He ran the smooth cloth through his fingers, feeling the cool of the mithril thread that picked out the raven sigil against his hands. She smiled at him, a tilted smile that was a little wry. "You've never had to do this before, have you? Grandfather and Father have always outranked you, whereas I have been the female leader for all of Erebor for decades now. Are you nervous?"

"Certainly not," Thorin said.

She took the two ends of the stole and tugged them gently. "I'm sure you'll do fine," she said reassuringly.

There were other preparations, of course: crescents and circles to be traced on the ground around the fire, auguries for the weather to be consulted, traditional thanks to be said to the preparers of food and cutters of wood. But soon enough the last glimmer of sunlight faded from the snow-capped peaks around them, and the spark was lit that would start the bonfire roaring.

Dís stepped forward, facing the crowd of dwarves. She lifted her hands to the sky and sang in Khuzdul:

_Hear us, O Mahal; O maker of the Fathers, hear our prayer._   
_The moon has fallen into darkness, and its light is vanished from the sky._   
_We call to you, Mahal, maker of our fate: we pray for the return of the moon._

"Hear us, O Mahal," said the rest of the dwarves, a low rumble in the darkness before Dís began her second stanza.

Her voice was deep and solid as the mountains, and when had his little sister become so strong and so graceful? Thorin felt his eyes stinging suddenly as he watched her, imploring the Maker for the return of light. He blinked hard and saw Bilbo standing between Balin and Dwalin at the edge of the firelight, looking at him. Their eyes met and Bilbo winked.

And then it was his turn.

He stepped forward as Dís stepped back and closed his eyes, letting the old Khuzdul phrases resound from his heart as he lifted his voice:

_For it was You who crafted it of purest silver; of finest mithril you forged it true._   
_You placed it in the sky to be our light; the secret light which none other ken._   
_For it waxeth and waneth in its secret ways, and so too do we Your people wax and wane._

The fire was warm on his face, and his sister was steady at his side; the voices of his people were with him in the dark, and the star at Bilbo's throat was brighter than any star in the sky.

_In this day of darkness, in this time of blackness, we rest in our faith of You, Mahal._   
_As You did not abandon our Fathers, so surely You will not abandon us._   
_For we live in darkness, but the darkness does not claim us._   
_The secret light burns within us, the sacred light of joy._


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party travels East, through the Greenwood, where they are welcomed by Thranduil for an uncomfortable dinner.

The road wound downward and they were on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains once more--but how different this time was than the last, Bilbo thought as the wagons jolted along. This time Thorin was filled with purpose and energy, spending much of their time when in camp talking to each dwarf in person. 

"He's looking forward to getting home," said Kíli one evening.

Bilbo hastily pulled his eyes from Thorin admiring a young scribe's penmanship, surprised to catch a shadow on Kíli's face. "Of course he is. Aren't you all?"

"Uncle hasn't been home for a long time," Kíli said as if it were an answer, and dropped his gaze to his fletching for a moment. "Prince-Regent Thráin--" He looked up and flashed a brief smile, "--that's my grandfather, Thorin's father."

"Yes, thank you, I do believe I've got that one now," said Bilbo.

"Prince-Regent Thráin has never been--" He broke off again and shook his head. "But in the last few years, he has become a stranger. Sometimes when he looks at my mother--"

"--Kíli and I decided we had to get Mother away from him," said Fíli, joining the conversation with a bowl of stew. "Didn't we, Kíli?"

"She thought she was getting us away," Kíli confided to Bilbo in a noisy whisper. "But let's face it, Mother is much more clever than either of us or Uncle Frerin, and thus more of a threat." They nodded solemnly in unison.

"That reminds me of something," Bilbo said. "If Frerin is older than your mother, why isn't he the heir?"

"Uncle Frerin?" Fíli chuckled, then sobered. "I forget you've never met him." 

"He's nice," said Kíli. "And a great fighter, the best axeman in Erebor. But he has no desire to rule, and he's not...let's just say he's not a master of statesmanship and sound decision-making. The dwarves of Erebor would be glad to let him lead them into battle, but not to lead from the throne."

"That Uncle Thorin considered me a better choice than him should tell you something," Fíli said wryly, lifting the spoon to his mouth.

Then he coughed as he was jolted by a slap on his back. "I would remind you that speaking ill of the Heir can be considered high treason," Thorin observed darkly, appearing behind him. "Do not doubt my judgment."

"Wouldn't dream of it," chirped Kíli. 

Thorin met Bilbo's eyes and smiled very slightly before going back to his conversation with the scribe, leaving Fíli still frozen with the spoon lifted to his lips for a long moment before carefully putting it to his almost-smiling mouth.

* * *

"Oh Mahal," Kíli whispered behind Bilbo. "It's _her_."

At his rapturous tone, Bilbo would have turned to blink at him, but his attention was riveted by the sight of six elves blocking the road ahead at the verge of a great dark wood.

"State your name and your purpose on the Old Forest Road," said the leader, a slim elf-maiden with long red-brown hair, her hand resting on her quiver.

Dís stepped forward. "I am Dís of Erebor, returning to my home. I request safe passage through the Greenwood and I bring--" She paused for a fleeting moment and Bilbo saw her hands, clasped out of sight behind her back, tighten. "--tribute for the Lord of the Wood in return."

"Lady Dís." The elf bowed slightly. "In the name of Lord Thranduil, I grant you safe passage through the wood." Her eyes flickered over the company, and she frowned. "It has been many years since I was in the halls of Erebor, but I am unlikely to forget the face of Prince Thorin."

Thorin stepped forward and bowed slightly. "Lady Tauriel--"

"--Just Tauriel, please," she said. "Captain of the Woodguard is the only title I require."

Behind him, Bilbo heard Kíli sigh, a sigh broken off as if someone had elbowed him very hard.

"Tauriel," Thorin said. "I am returning to Erebor with my companions. Will your promise of safe passage extend to us as well?"

She frowned. "Of course it will." Her eyes fell on Bilbo, and her frown deepened. "And who is this?"

Bilbo stepped forward and bowed. "Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, uh, at your service."

She put her hand to her dagger and stepped suddenly closer to him, ignoring the way Thorin tensed and put his own hand to the hilt of Deathless. "Have you been in the Greenwood before, Mr. Baggins?"

"What? No, not at all, though I'm sure it's a very--" He peeked into the shadowy depths and looked back at Tauriel, "--A very nice place indeed."

She stared at him a while longer, then stepped back, still wary. "My scouts have reported seeing a being--smaller than either a dwarf or an elf, and stealthy beyond even our ability to track easily--in the wood. You are certain you have not been entering the wood without our permission?"

An angry mutter rumbled through the company of dwarves. "He's been with us the whole time!" Dori burst out angrily.

"Mr. Baggins is a being of unimpeachable credentials and impeccable honesty," Thorin said, "and is under my protection. Relations between Erebor and the Greenwood have never been easy, but we have no need to send a spy within."

After a moment, Tauriel removed her hand from her dagger. "Very well," she said. "You may travel the road with our escort. But we shall be keeping a close eye on you, Bilbo Baggins."

The path had not looked large enough to hold their wagons, yet somehow it seemed to expand to let them pass. From the back of his pony, Bilbo looked with some unease at the great, gnarled trees looming all around them, their branches filled with vague rustling. "This is the forest I grew up near," Thorin said in a low voice, and Bilbo realized he had nudged his pony closer to Thorin's without thinking. "Do you still wonder that I grew up with little affection for trees?"

"Well," said Bilbo, "They're certainly not...the friendliest trees I've ever seen." He'd never thought of the trees of the Shire as "friendly" before, but found himself missing the crooked little apple tree in his backyard with a fierce longing. 

"I shall go ahead, to bring news of your coming to the Court," Tauriel said. She leapt to a branch, then the top of a wagon, and then a taller branch in three cat-like jumps. "Dwarves may be doughty in battle, but always they run slow behind the Eldar," she said, and for the first time Bilbo saw a smile light her face. Then she turned and was gone into the wood, without even a rustle of leaves to mark her passing.

"She's _amazing,"_ said Kíli. He caught Bilbo's look and straightened in the saddle, a smudge of red on his cheeks. "It's not like that," he said with dignity. "I can admire skill when I see it."

"My brother met her when she escorted Thranduil to Erebor--what was it, sixty years ago?" Fíli said. "When he was just a little child."

_"Fíli,"_ Kíli said.

"He announced that she was beautiful in front of the whole assemblage--"

"--And no one has ever let me forget it," said Kíli a bit huffily. "Including her."

"Elves are not trustworthy," said Dís from her own pony, looking around at the trees. "They have long memories, and they judge people by the deeds of their ancestors done long ages ago."

In a different situation, Bilbo would have asked what she meant by that, but surrounded by the looming trees and escorted by tall and silent elves he found he did not want to ask about any ancient grudges between the peoples.

The wood blurred around them, filled with dark rustlings and blinkings of pale eyes from within the shadows. It felt like they had been riding for days in muffled silence when suddenly Bilbo's pony stopped and he blinked up at a great wooden door, covered with carvings of leaves and branches. It swung open to reveal Tauriel.

"Thranduil, Lord of the Wood, accepts your tribute and offers you hospitality for the evening," she said.

"We accept," said Dís, her voice even, but there were many nervous looks cast and many dubious mutterings as the dwarves passed through the gates and let them swing shut behind them.

* * *

"So, the Exiled Prince returns to the Lonely Mountain." Thranduil sat on his throne with lazy, careless grace as dwarves and elves sat down to dinner. The dwarves--under Dís and Balin's watchful eyes--were largely behaving themselves, but it was far from a relaxed meal. It would take so little to antagonize either party, and Thorin felt keenly as if he were sitting on a powderkeg. Thranduil had accepted a sapphire-studded bracelet and a carved jade ring from Dís, handing them off to an attendant without looking at them closely. "Will there be rejoicing at your return, I wonder?"

Thorin glowered up at Thranduil, feeling his shoulders tense. "I care not. I do not return to reclaim my title."

Thranduil laughed, a silvery and cutting sound. "Let us not be coy, Prince Thorin. Given the news from Erebor, it is clear why you are hurrying home."

Conversations around the hall faltered at the sound of his words, and Thorin felt foreboding pierce him. "Of what news do you speak?"

Thranduil straightened on his throne and looked directly at Thorin for the first time. "You do not know," he said.

Thorin waited, feeling a muscle twitch in his jaw, but Thranduil did not continue. "You have me at a disadvantage," he gritted at last.

The Lord of the Greenwood met his eyes squarely, and for a bare moment Thorin saw something like sympathy in those ageless depths. Then Thranduil looked away, and when he looked back his gaze was bright and cold and birdlike once more. 

"The news came to us just days ago," he said, "That Prince Frerin led a great force of his people against the orcs of Gundabad to the north. That his intelligence was in error, and he was met with thousands more foes than he anticipated."

"No," said Dís's voice, a small and breathless sound, and Thranduil inclined his head gravely toward her.

"That Prince Frerin and all his company fell beneath the shadow of Gundabad. His body was borne home, pierced with many cruel wounds, and he rests now within the Lonely Mountain."

Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it again. The flickering torches of the hall swam in a haze. He heard someone weeping and realized it was Fíli; Dís sat as if turned to a statue indeed, her eyes fixed on the elf-lord.

"I am sorry," Thranduil said. "To give you news of such grief."

Everyone was looking at Thorin, elf and dwarf and hobbit alike. After a moment he rose and lifted his cup. "To the memory of Prince Frerin of Erebor," he said, lifting it. It trembled and a trickle of wine spilled over the top. "To the bravest warrior and kindest heart of Durin's Line!" 

Murmurs echoed around the hall as people drank. 

"To my little brother," he heard himself add in a voice that scarce sounded like his, and sat down.

The cup was shaking so hard now that it was in danger of spilling. Small hands took it away from him and set it down carefully on the table, then rested on his elbow, warm and steady. He wanted to turn and look at Bilbo. He didn't dare.

"If you wish, you and your people may be our guests for the night," Thranduil said. He paused, then added, "If, that is, you promise not to sully anything."

Thorin looked up into the elf-lord's cold bright eyes and seized the gift offered, one more precious than pity. He lifted his chin and stood once more. "As always, your hospitality is a shining example to all," he said, letting the biting sarcasm brace him. "We shall sleep in our wagons so as not to risk damaging any of your pretty baubles. Please come to Erebor sometime soon so I can repay your hospitality in kind."

Thranduil inclined his head, an enigmatic half-smile on his lips. "I look forward to the opportunity, Prince Thorin."

* * *

Somehow they got through the meal, although Thorin spoke little, his gaze fixed in the middle distance. Conversations flickered and died throughout the hall, and when the meal came to a merciful end, they slipped away to their wagons, waiting just outside the fortress.

"Thorin," said Bilbo as he lay on his cot. 

No answer. 

"Thorin. Do you want to talk about it?"

A long silence. "My brother and I parted badly," Thorin said at last. "He considered what I was doing a fool's errand. I called him blind and ignorant. I always thought I would be able to take those words back, and now I never can." Bilbo heard him swallow. "I have no desire to speak further about this issue."

"That's all right," said Bilbo, who had come to understand what it meant when Thorin was at his most distant and regal. "You don't have to. But I'm here if you want to. Or even if you don't."

"Thank you," said Thorin. There was a long silence, and Bilbo had started to drift off to sleep when he spoke again, just one phrase. 

"My morning star," he said, and Bilbo couldn't tell if he was talking about his brother, or Erebor, or something else entirely.

* * *

"Oh, how beautiful!" Bilbo stopped, struck with admiration, as the wagons came to a stop at the edge of a large lake. On the far shore, the Lonely Mountain perched, its white-topped height reflected in the choppy blue water. Then he looked down the shore and frowned. "What--what in the world is _that?"_

Kíli peered along his pointing finger and grinned as he took in the great jumble of white bones, the vast bleached ribcage rising from the shallows. "Oh, that's just the dragon, nothing major."

"Just the--what?" Bilbo heard himself squeak.

"Oh yeah, happened before I was born," said Kíli. "Dragon attacked Erebor--greedy bastards, dragons. Girion, the Lord of Dale at the time, shot him with his great black arrow--claimed a thrush told him where to shoot, but I don't know about that, sounds kind of like a fairy tale, don't you think? Anyway, the dragon crashed out here in the lake and that was that!" He shrugged at Bilbo's round eyes. "Exciting, huh? Wish I'd been there to see it."

"No you don't," said Thorin shortly, and Kíli raised his eyebrows at Bilbo and fell silent.

"Uncle Frerin took us here to see it once when we were little," Fíli said with a wan smile. "We took a little rowboat out and touched the bones, and he told us about seeing it in the sky above Dale before it was killed, all malice and flame. It all seemed like a story out of an old book, but the bones were real enough."

Bilbo opened his mouth to ask something more, but his words were cut off by the sound of a cry of alarm from the wagons, yelling something in Khuzdul.

"Bandits," said Thorin, pulling Deathless from its scabbard and sprinting toward the cry as the sound of galloping hooves filled the air.

Strong hands pushed Bilbo under one of the wagons. He started to yell a protest, and realized it was Dís, holding a massive spiked hammer. "Stay out of the way!" she yelled at him, and pushed him further with one boot.

The next few minutes were full of chaos: the pounding of hooves on the ground mixing with the warcries of the dwarves and the screams of the wounded. Peering out from under the wagon, Bilbo could see Dís's furred boots as well as Kíli and Fíli's lighter leather boots, standing with their heels together. Fighting back to back. 

A dozen or so human feet entered his field of vision as he scrabbled to get his knife out of its scabbard. One of the bandits laughed and jumped forward. There was a grunt from Dís, a wet solid sound, and the human's feet stopped suddenly. 

The body, when it tumbled to the ground and back into Bilbo's vision, was distinctly lacking a head.

A pair of human legs backed toward the wagon; when they drew near enough Bilbo stabbed at his calves with his knife. "What the--!" The bandit turned to look for his attacker, and Bilbo saw him stagger and collapse as someone else stabbed him.

Bilbo slithered down the length of the wagon and emerged at the back, then charged around to find Fíli parrying a blow by another bandit. Bilbo jumped forward to help him; startled, the bandit fell back a step--and right into the path of an arrow.

"You would have missed," Fíli panted as it dawned on Bilbo that all the bandits were dead.

"I predicted he'd step backward," Kíli said. 

"I told you to stay under the wagon," Dís said, resting her gore-soaked hammer on the ground and leaning on it, glaring at Bilbo.

"He never listens, Mother," said Fíli.

She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it as Thorin and Dwalin came running. "We're fine," she said to their looks of relief. "The bandits?"

"All dead," said Thorin. 

"Casualties?"

Thorin's gaze dropped. "Three dead. Two others badly wounded." He looked back at his sister and his jaw set. "They were lying in wait for us."

"Thranduil," Dís said, but Dwalin shook his head. 

"I think not. The bandits were clearly looking for someone in particular. Based on their behavior, they were hunting for you and the boys. They ignored Thorin and I entirely. If Thranduil had betrayed us, they would have known we traveled with you and he would have been a target as well."

"Someone was looking to kill the three of you," Thorin said. He sounded as if someone had hit him in the chest with a mace, breathless and pained.

"First Frerin is sent against a force too large for him," said Dwalin. "Then--no, Thorin, I will speak my fill!--then an ambush awaits Lady Dís and her sons as they return to Erebor." He crossed his arms, his jaw clenched. "The only conclusion is someone wants the Line of Durin dead. Someone with a great deal of power and influence, someone--"

Thorin whirled and walked away from Dwalin and the others, shouting commands at people doing clean-up, leaving everyone looking at each other.

"Uncle hasn't been home in a long time," said Kíli to Bilbo, and knelt to yank an arrow from a bandit's throat. 

"Let us hope he still has one to return to," Dís said, meeting Dwalin's eyes gravely.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin returns to Erebor, and Bilbo Baggins enters the Lonely Mountain for the first time.

"Curse this cold!" snarled Dwalin, blowing into his cupped hands and stamping his feet. "Couldn't we have returned in summer, when the shadow of the mountain lies cool upon the land?"

Bilbo winced as a gust of wind skittered up the slopes of Erebor, seizing his cloak and snapping it around him.

"I shall take your words as the jest they certainly are," said Thorin, pacing. His eyes were shadowed, and he kept glancing at a patch of stone that he had sworn was a secret door that Dís would soon open from the inside. He had grown taciturn since parting with his sister and the rest of the larger company, and Bilbo found himself missing Fíli and Kíli's chatter intensely. Cheering words seemed to falter in the bleak wind, and the locked and hidden door seemed somehow ominous.

He noticed, however, that Thorin had moved to stand between Bilbo and the worst of the blustering wind.

The half-moon peeked above the craggy cliffs of Erebor, bathing their little outcropping of rock in silver. They stood in silence, shivering in the icy wind, and then suddenly Bilbo jumped back with a muffled cry.

Torchlight flooded from a crack in the cliff face, and Dís peered out from the mountain at them. "Welcome back to Erebor, brother," she said as she ushered them into the Lonely Mountain.

* * *

Thorin heard Bilbo take a breath as they stepped into the narrow passage etched with sigils and carvings. "I've seen this," Bilbo whispered. "In the Lady's mirror."

"We three--Frerin and Dís and I--came here often as children. To have some time away from court." _And away from our father,_ he did not add, but Dís's eyes flickered to his, dark with old memories. 

"Thorin," she said, and he realized that her mouth was drawn and tense, "Father wears the Ring of Durin."

Thorin heard Dwalin and Balin suck in breaths of shock and kept himself from cursing with an effort. "Is our grandfather--"

"--He lives," Dís said hastily. "Or so Father--" she swallowed and started again, "--so the Prince-Regent claims. But he says that King Thrór has abdicated the throne and named him the ruler of Erebor."

"We must find my grandfather," Thorin said. "Do you believe Thráin knows we're here?"

"I don't believe so," said Dís. "His face when we entered the hall…" She shook her head. "He recovered quickly and has called a great feast this night, in honor of 'the return of his beloved family.' I slipped away for a moment. He had two of his spies following me, but--" She smiled, "--I went to visit Mother's tomb and lost them in the catacombs." Her smile flickered out. "Put up your hoods and let us make haste," she said, and stepped out in front of them, her torch casting wavering shadows across the rock.

"Thorin," said Bilbo as they walked, "Your sister mentioned a Ring of Durin?"

Thorin nodded. "It is one of seven great rings given of old to the chiefs of each clan, the last remaining. They were created by--" He stopped, touched by a formless unease, and had to force himself to continue, "By a great force of evil in this world who went by the name of Annatar, the Gift-Giver. But his gifts were like his heart, false and treacherous, and he meant all along to enslave us by linking the Seven to the One Great Ring that he forged for himself. But my people proved too resistant to his wiles. They never turned Durin's folk to evil, but we used the powers of the Rings to increase our wealth and power. He was a mighty craftsman and taught the elves much--never enough to compare with the Khazad, of course--and they made many rings of minor power that remained unlinked to the One." He smiled at Bilbo, trying to banish the shadow of worry from his mind. "Perhaps your ring is one of those." 

Bilbo laughed, and Thorin marveled at how the merry sound seemed to lift the gloom from the shadows and from his heart. "I'm trying to imagine an elf-lord of old painstakingly crafting a ring with the awe-inspiring power to turn hobbits invisible," he said.

"In any case, the Ring of Durin is the symbol of our rule. It is...difficult to imagine my grandfather choosing to give it up."

The passage came to an end in a sheer wall, but Dís touched a section of it and it slid open to reveal a great hallway, now empty. From far away came the sounds of revelry, and as they slipped into the vast hall with its towering pillars reaching upward out of sight, Thorin heard Bilbo gasp quietly. "So beautiful," he whispered, and Thorin felt his heart fill with pride and fear.

"I will return to the party and keep an eye on Thráin," said Dís. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a small key. "The key to the king's chambers. I took it from him when he embraced me in welcome." 

Thorin took it from her and raised an eyebrow. "You have learned some...unorthodox skills in my absence, sister."

"Indeed," she said. She smiled and reached out to tug his beard lightly, as she had as a child. "Go with Mahal's luck and my love, my brother."

* * *

Bilbo tried to keep up with the dwarves as they hurried through the halls, but his eyes kept getting drawn to the wonders of the halls of Erebor: golden veins sparkling within a marble pillar, intricate carvings that seemed to interlock in dizzying patterns.

"You have seen the great halls of Khazad-dûm," hissed Thorin as he stopped to pull Bilbo away from rapt contemplation of a lamp made of a single massive amethyst. "This is not new to you."

"I'm sorry," whispered Bilbo. "But...Khazad-dûm was like a grave, dead and gone. This place…it lives. It _breathes._ "

Thorin stared at him a moment. Then he brought his forehead to Bilbo's, a brief touch. "Thank you," he murmured. Then he tugged Bilbo's arm. "But I shall give you a full tour later; for now we must make haste."

They ran up the last stairway and found themselves in front of a vast door gemmed with sapphires and moonstones. "Halt!" said the guards on either side of it, lowering their pikes in unison to guard the way. 

Thorin threw back his hood and stepped forward, and his voice rang through the hall: "It is I, Thorin, grandson of the King!"

The guard on the right stepped forward, and his pike wavered. "Prince Thorin?"

"Mîn, daughter of Lîn," said Thorin, speaking to the guard on the left. "And Gimli, son of Gloin. I return with a cure for my grandfather. If you love the line of Durin, let me pass!"

There was a breathless moment of silence; Bilbo heard Balin loosen his weapon in its scabbard. Then Gimli sank to one knee, and Mîn followed suit.

"Welcome home, your highness," murmured Mîn. "And...forgive us."

"For guarding your king?" Thorin stepped forward and clasped both their shoulders. "There is no apology needed."

Then he took the key from his pocket--only Bilbo, standing by his side, could have seen the faint tremor in them--opened the door, and stepped into the king's chamber.

* * *

"Stay here and guard the door," Dwalin said to the guards as they stepped into the dimly-lit room, letting the doors swing shut behind them.

It was a sitting room, filled with ornate furniture, the walls hung with tapestries. Light glimmered from iridescent stones set in the walls. But the furniture was in disarray and covered with dust, the tapestries hanging askew, some half-torn-down. A scent of decay and rot hung over everything, and Bilbo took some shallow breaths through his mouth, heard Balin swallow hard.

Carefully, they walked through the room to the far side, to a smaller set of doors. Glass crunched under their boots, and Thorin stopped to make sure Bilbo's bare feet avoided the jagged shards.

He put a hand on the door handle and swung it open.

The smell hit them first: a fetid reek of ordure and illness. Bilbo swallowed and gagged before fumbling for a handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. The rooms were totally dark. "Grandfather?" Thorin whispered, stepping forward carefully.

Somewhere in the darkness, something whimpered.

Behind them, Bilbo heard Dwalin cursing in a thick voice as he struggled to light a torch. When it finally blazed into light, Bilbo almost wished he hadn't succeeded.

On a bed shoved into a corner of the room huddled a dwarf, his eyes animal-bright, his long beard snarled in knots and stained with yellow saliva. The bed was caked with filth, buzzing with flies. 

_"Grandfather,"_ Thorin moaned.

The dwarf on the bed raised its hands and shook them angrily, and chains rattled.

"You can't have my gold!" Thrór cried in a cracked, mad voice. "I won't let you!" He scrabbled in the pile of offal, clutching it to his breast. "It's mine, I tell you!"

Thorin staggered forward to fall to his knees by the bed and seize his grandfather's filthy hands in his own. "My liege, my King, grandfather," he stammered. "It's Thorin, I've come to--"

And then his eyes fell on Thrór's hand.

Bilbo heard Thorin sob once, a horrified sound of shock and anguish, and Thrór wrenched his mutilated hand away. "He took my ring," wailed Thrór, "But I never gave it to him, no, I never did! I'll never give up anything that's mine, never--"

Thorin stood then, and rage was an icy flame in his face as he unsheathed Deathless. "I will kill him," he said, his voice as ancient and cold as stone as he turned from the bed.

"Thorin, no!" said Balin. "The tea, the cure, you mustn't leave the king now."

Thorin stared at him a moment as if at a stranger. Then he sheathed Deathless with a snap and grabbed the canteen that Balin held out with shaking hands. He turned back to the bed and sank to his knees once more. "Grandfather," he murmured, and Bilbo's heart ached at the gentleness in his voice, "I come with a cure for your illness."

Thrór's mad bright eyes focused on him. "No," he said. "You bring me only poison, you bring me only lies, you wish to steal what's left to me--well you won't, do you hear me! I won't let you, I'll kill you first, _I'll kill you--_ "

He lunged forward, straining against his chains, and snapped at Thorin's face like a rabid dog.

"No, you won't," said Thorin, and Thrór stopped, puzzlement creasing his filthy face. "You would never hurt the Line of Durin, no matter how lost to the sickness you were. This is why I gave you my fealty--and my love," he finished in a bare whisper.

Thrór shook his head, confused. "Thorin?" he murmured, peering at the man before him. "But Thorin is but a lad, and you are a dwarf full-grown." He touched Thorin's face with a broken claw of a hand. "I don't understand," he muttered, querulous. "Why would my grandson bring me poison?"

"It's not poison, your majesty." Ignoring Balin and Dwalin's startlement, Bilbo stepped forward. "If you drink it, it will restore your kingdom and all your riches to you."

"Yes, exactly," said Thorin eagerly, holding out the canteen once more. "This drink will give you the power to regain all that you have lost, my King."

The king squinted at Bilbo suspiciously, then looked at Thorin. At least, he reached out with trembling hands and took the canteen and drank deeply.

Everyone stared at him in anticipation, but he drew away from them, fear back on his features. "You said I'd have all my gold back," he muttered. "Where is it? Fetch me my gold, boy!"

Thorin put his hands to his face and sat in silence for a moment as his grandfather shivered and gibbered. Then he rose. "Break his chains, Dwalin," he said.

"With pleasure," Dwalin said, and stepped forward with his axe raised. Thrór cried out in alarm, but there was a sharp sound of metal on metal and the chains shung free.

"You can't make me leave!" Thrór cried, shrinking back on the bed, clutching the filthy blankets to him as though unaware he'd been freed. "This is all I have left!"

Bilbo saw Thorin's face twist with pity, and shame, and grief intermingled. "That's not true, Grandfather," he said softly. "You will always have those of us who love you." He put his hand on his sword-hilt. "I shall return and take care of you," he said. "But first I must find my father."

He looked at the rest of the party. "Stay here with the King," he said. "Keep him safe and secure." Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, but he shook his head. "I will not risk the lives of those I love against my father," he said. "Yours above all."

He turned and was gone, his strides breaking into a run as he threw open the door.

"We'll need hot water," said Balin, turning in circles as he cast wild glances around the room. Dwalin was trying to comfort Thrór, who had gone silent once more, gazing after Thorin. "For pity's sake, we must get him into some clean clothes, I can't bear it. Bilbo, do you see any--Bilbo?" 

He stared around the room. 

"Why, where has that hobbit gone?"

* * *

Thráin, self-styled King Under the Mountain, raised his finest goblet gemmed with rubies as red as fresh blood, garnets as red as old blood. "It is a time of great sadness for Erebor, my people. First, the illness of the King which yet grows apace, grieving our hearts. And now my son, Frerin, rests forever in the heart of the mountain. But in this time of deepest darkness, we have yet cause for joy. For my dear daughter has returned to us from the west, and with her our cherished grandsons." He paused to let his words roll through the great hall and smiled at Dís. "The one light in all my sorrow, the dear hope for the future of Erebor, we welcome you back to our loving arms." The Ring of Durin gleamed dully on his finger as he raised his hand in blessing. "Tonight we put aside our grief to--"

A distant _boom_ echoed through the hall, as if great stone doors were thrown open somewhere. Thráin paused, then forged ahead:

"We put aside our grief at our tragic loss to celebrate the safe passage of Dís and--"

Another _boom_ , this one closer. Thráin licked his lips, then gestured to two of his guards, who moved closer to the doors. "Of my precious daughter Dís, the greatest jewel of all my--"

_Bang!_ The heavy granite doors of the banquet hall were hurled open, and the court burst into murmurs at the sight of Thorin standing in the doorway, his naked blade in his hand.

"Thráin!" bellowed Thorin. "Usurper! Kinslayer!"

Thráin glared at the apparition of his son, and the calm confidence in his face slowly fractured and crumbled into scorn and fury--and fear. "You!" he cried, whirling to point with a shaking finger at Dís. "You viper, you abomination, you have betrayed me!"

"Father--" started Dís, but Thráin cut her off, his eyes glinting scarlet with rage in the light of the torches.

"You have been plotting against me from the very beginning, plotting to overthrow me and give my birthright to _him_!" 

Thorin stepped into the room. "There is blood on your hands, Thráin."

For an instant, Thráin raised his hands to stare wildly at them. Then he laughed, a sound like shattered glass. "You are a liar as well as a traitor! My hands are clean!" He held them up, ignoring the murmurs of the crowd.

Thorin moved forward, and step by slow step Thráin cringed backward. "You sent brigands to intercept and kill my sister and my sister-sons. You chained my grandfather, your King, to his bed to die of neglect." His voice was steady but filled with inexorable rage. "You are no rightful King Under the Mountain."

Thráin's face twisted. "Curse you! I shall be the last of the Line of Durin, the final apotheosis of our glorious blood! It is my destiny! I had to sacrifice my dearest child, my only loyal child, to achieve it--I certainly will not allow you to stand in my way!" Gasps echoed around the hall, but he ignored them and gestured at his guards. "Kill him!"

The guards hesitated, looking at each other. Thorin walked past them toward his father, not sparing a glance for them.

"Kill him!" shrieked Thráin. "Obey your King!"

"Yes," came a voice at the door. _"Obey your King."_

Cries broke out as Thrór stepped into the hall, supported on one side by Dwalin and on the other by Balin, flanked by Gimli and Mîn. His steps were faltering, but his eyes were clear. He raised his hand to point at Thráin, and the gasps turned from shock to horror at the sight of it. "Thráin, once son of Thrór, give back the ring you stole and surrender yourself to justice."

Thráin's hands twisted in his own beard, tearing at it. Bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. But as Gimli and Mîn stepped forward, he pulled a knife from his belt and hurled it at Gimli, catching him in the shoulder. As Gimli fell back, groaning, and Mîn and Thorin leaped forward, Thráin pressed a panel in the wall and disappeared into a passage behind the throne, which sealed shut behind him.

Chaos broke out: some people rushed to attend the king, others to aid Gimli, some to try and open the passage. Thorin stood immobile amongst the surging throng, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. Then suddenly he sheathed Deathless, turned and ran from the room, unnoticed by almost everyone in the mayhem.

Almost everyone.

* * *

The halls of Erebor blurred around Thorin as he ran toward the library, throwing open the door and scrambling for the furthest wall and the secret passage hidden behind the bookcases there. It swung open to reveal a tunnel heading downward and to the east--and deep below, a light glinted off the curving walls. It had been a gamble--a guess that Thráin's hidden door connected to the same maze of tunnels that the one he had found as a child did--and it had paid off. 

Thorin plunged into tunnels, following the flickering light.

He caught up with Thráin far to the east, as he struggled to open the door to the outside and safety. On the other side of the door lay the foothills of the Lonely Mountain and the wild eastern wastes; as Thorin rounded the corner he could see the door shift and a thread of dawn sunlight limn it, brilliant in the darkness.

"Not one step further," said Thorin. Thráin whirled to stare at him as he pulled the second flask from his belt, held it out. "Please. This is a cure for your illness. It will help you."

Thráin shook his head. "Curse you," he snarled. "How dare you challenge me! How dare you doubt me!" He held up his fist and the dim light gleamed from the brandished Ring of Durin. "I am your King, whelp!"

"You _were_ my _father!_ " Thorin cried, and heard the echoes die all around him.

Thráin smiled then, and it was worse than any scorn or hatred Thorin had ever experienced, ever imagined. "Once I thought I needed heirs, but none of you have proven better than a burden. Would that I had disposed of your mother before she birthed any of you." He shook his head. "I do not need your 'cure,' and I do not need you."

And he pulled a throwing knife from his belt and hurled it at Thorin.

He was just about to release the blade when he staggered sideways as if the ground had lurched beneath his feet, or as if struck by a powerful burst of air.

Or as if something heavy and invisible had slammed into him.

The blade flew awry and grated off the wall next to Thorin's head. "Run, Thorin!" cried a familiar voice, and Thráin cried out, struggling with unseen hands. With a roar of rage he seized two handfuls of air and hurled it away from him--and Bilbo flickered back into Thorin's vision sprawled at his feet, looking confused and frightened.

"It fell off," he whispered, almost to himself. "Why did it fall off, where is it?" He scrabbled on the ground on all fours as Thráin stared at him, finally straightening with a sigh of relief, the gold ring between his fingers. "Oh, I thought I'd lost you," he murmured.

Thráin's eyes narrowed as he looked from Thorin to Bilbo, and Thorin saw the hand that bore the Ring of Durin clench and unclench. "What manner of being are you, you witch-child, you ring-bearer that has ensnared my eldest son?" he said.

"I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire," said Bilbo, not noticing the way Thorin stepped forward as if to keep him from answering. He shook his head at Thráin as if chiding a child. "And you are a very bad dwarf indeed."

"So what will you do now?" Thráin said, his eyes alive with strange dark shadows, assessing and calculating. "You cannot stop me." He stepped back toward the door and Thorin drew Deathless, let the grating sound echo off the walls. 

"I will not allow you to leave," he said.

A sharp bark of a laugh. "You will not kill me," said Thráin. "No Kinslayer, no Kingslayer shall ever rule over Erebor. You will not give up your right to take the throne."

Silence filled the corridor. A small voice broke it: "No one would hear about it from me," said Bilbo, and his eyes on Thorin were full of compassion and sorrow.

"But _he_ would know," said Thráin, with a twisted and taunting smile. "Wouldn't you, my oh-so-noble son?"

Thorin sheathed Deathless once more, then unbuckled the scabbard and tossed it aside. "Then I shall take you without killing you, or die myself in the doing," he said, ignoring Bilbo's cry of alarm, and stepped forward.

Thráin's smile never faltered. He drew two more knives and dropped into a defensive crouch.

And as Thorin drew near, he dodged to the right and threw one of his knives.

* * *

Bilbo squeaked as he found himself crushed up against the corridor wall by a broad body. As he struggled to breathe he heard the secret door grate shut and the passage was thrown into pitch darkness once more. "Thorin?" he faltered. "What happened?"

He groped forward and felt Thorin's hiss stir his hair. "Gently," said Thorin.

"You idiot," burst out Bilbo, "Did you throw yourself in front of a knife for me?"

"I shall live, thank you for asking," said Thorin, a faint chuckle blurring his voice. "I am both more armored and less fragile than you; it is but a scratch to me."

"You idiot," Bilbo said again, his voice fracturing wildly.

"You're welcome," said Thorin. "But I shall need some assistance returning to the hall."

Bilbo found that his knees were trembling, and was glad for the blackness that hid his expression. He got on his hands and knees and found Deathless, then buckled the scabbard around Thorin's waist once more. He got his shoulder under Thorin's uninjured side and they began to make their slow way back up the dark passage together. 

For a long time everything was silent except for Thorin's sobbing breaths and the shuffle of their feet in the dark. "I'm not sure how to tell you this," Bilbo said.

"Yes?" grunted Thorin.

"I don't think your father approved of me."

A gust of startled, almost pained laughter. "He didn't seem to, did he?"

"Well, I'm afraid I didn't take to him either," Bilbo said judiciously.

They walked on in silence a while longer.

"What did he mean," said Bilbo, his voice slower and more thoughtful. "When he called me a witch and a ring-bearer?"

Thorin didn't answer for a time. "Well, you were invisible. And you do bear a ring," he said.

"That makes sense," said Bilbo.

"Yes," said Thorin, but his voice was thoughtful as if he were filing something away to think on later.

"Will you send a party to look for him?"

"That decision is the King's to make, not mine. But I will argue against it," Thorin said between careful breaths. "I would not risk the lives of more of my people against his madness. He has lost the only thing in this world he held dear, the throne. He is broken and he shall trouble us no more."

If Bilbo heard any doubt or worry in Thorin's voice, he decided not to point it out. "I'm glad you didn't get yourself killed," he said instead.

A broad hand ruffled his curls. "As am I," said Thorin, and they slowly made their way back to where light and life and tearful reunions awaited them.

Soon enough they would be surrounded by friends and loved ones; soon enough there would be healing and hope. Thorin--pale and bandaged but smiling--would take his place at the right hand of King Thrór, and there would be tunes from the harp and songs composed about the bravery of dwarves and of hobbits. Thrór would gift Bilbo with a circlet of gold--which Bilbo privately thought made him look rather silly--and joy and justice would rule once more in Erebor.

But for the moment, it was just the two of them in the dark together, step by step and side by side, and it was more than enough.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter turns into spring in Erebor: bittersweet times as the days grow longer and different partings draw near.

The days grew longer and the sunlight warmer, although few noticed it deep in the living, beating heart of Erebor. There was so much work to be done, so much to be set right. So much to do and so much to learn, and for a while it seemed like they had all the time in the world.

* * *

"Bilbo!" Kíli and Fíli burst into Thorin and Bilbo's suite, followed by a third dwarf, moving more cautiously. "Why are you just sitting here alone?"

Bilbo put down the scroll he was reading. "Well, Thorin's busy with his grandfather--"

Kíli sighed and rolled his eyes. "Isn't it _tedious_? Having to go over treaties and maps--"

"--and the endless _meetings_ ," put in Fíli. "Meetings with the Gemcutters Guild and the Woodcutters Guild and the Cooking Guild and the Captain of the Guard, settling all those details and grievances--"

"--No wonder he ran away to the West," concluded Kíli.

"I, uh, I don't think that's why he ran away--I mean, left," said Bilbo. He nodded to the third dwarf, who was standing awkwardly behind Fíli and Kíli. "Gimli, isn't it? Is that shoulder healing?"

Gimli looked surprised to be recognized, then bowed stiffly. "It heals well. It would take more than a coward's dagger to bring down a Guard of Erebor, my Lord."

Bilbo snorted with laughter and Gimli looked at him as if suspicious the laugh were meant for him. "No, just--don't call me 'my Lord.' I'm no lord, I'm just a very ordinary hobbit." Gimli raised an eyebrow, and Bilbo suddenly saw himself as the young dwarf might see him: sitting in the heir's quarters, dressed in the crimson velvet and furs Thorin had insisted on giving him, with the prince's star brooch shining as always at his throat. "I'm--quite ordinary," he finished a bit weakly.

"We told him that, but he didn't seem to believe us," said Fíli. "I mean, not that you're _ordinary_ ordinary at all, but you're just--Bilbo, you know?"

"Yes, uh. What he said," said Bilbo. "Really, just call me Bilbo."

After a moment, Gimli nodded reluctantly. "I am here because the princes were talking about their adventures, my--Bilbo," he said.

"He's still kind of angry because he didn't get to come along," said Fíli.

"We keep telling him that it turned out to be _really_ important he be here to guard the King, but he doesn't listen," added Kíli.

Gimli glowered at the both of them. "Don't condescend to me!" he burst out. "I've hardly had a chance to leave Erebor in my life, and now you've been _everywhere_ while I'm stuck here--"

"--But there's lots of places we _haven't_ been," said Kíli. "Gondor, Dol Amroth, the Orocarni far to the east--"

Gimli's jaw set under his beard. "You mock me, but I _will_ see the world," he growled.

"We're not mocking you at all!" protested Fíli. "We wouldn't do that, would we Kíli?"

Kíli shook his head vigorously; Bilbo had the distinct sense that Gimli had grown up with the brothers teasing him.

"We wouldn't do that, right, Bilbo?" Fíli looked wide-eyed at Bilbo, searching for confirmation.

"Um, well," said Bilbo. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why have you come by to see me?"

Fíli pounced on the change of topic with relief. "We were telling Gimli about your _butterscotch biscuits,"_ he said, pronouncing the words like they were foreign. "When we told him that you brought some, he wanted to see if they were as good as we claimed."

Bilbo pulled out his pack. "I don't know if they're going to be as good as they say," he said to Gimli. "But they're definitely better than _cram._ "

He doled out two biscuits to each dwarf and one to himself, smiling as Fíli and Kíli took their time turning the biscuits over in their hands, smelling them, savoring the wait.

Gimli took a bite of his biscuit and his grumbling protests trailed off as his eyes grew wide. "This is--!" He couldn't finish the sentence, but took another bite, sighing with happiness.

When Thorin came back from his meeting, he found three dwarves and one hobbit perched on the edge of the royal four-poster bed, cheerfully consuming butterscotch biscuits. There was a majestic wrath to face--and many crumbs to clean up--before the revelation that Bilbo had saved three biscuits for Thorin managed to mollify him.

* * *

Bilbo and Thorin were idly playing dice as they waited in the antechambers of King Thrór's new rooms--the old ones having been abandoned. Bilbo picked up a die and held it up to the lamplight. "If my neighbors could see me, playing with dice carved from sapphires and rubies!" he laughed.

Thorin was about to respond when the door swung open and Óin came out, removing a small listening tube from around his neck. When he saw Thorin, he bowed to him; when he straightened again, there was sadness and compassion in his eyes.

"The King is greatly weakened from his long illness and his cruel treatment," Óin said. "He is well in mind and in no pain, but I fear…" He dropped his eyes again.

"How long?" Thorin hardly recognized his own voice.

"It could be a month. Not much longer."

"May I see him?"

Óin smiled ruefully. "He insisted on it."

Bilbo scooped up the dice and slipped them into a pouch. "Stay with us," Thorin said when he stood to go. "Stay with me."

With a sad half-smile, Bilbo nodded, and they went into the room together.

King Thrór was sitting by the fireplace, dressed in his brocaded robes lined with ermine. He stood as Thorin approached, still able to tower over him, but Thorin's heart wrenched when he forced himself for the first time to see just how pale the king looked, as if his spirit were stretched thin.

"Grandfather," said Thorin as Bilbo bowed deeply.

Thrór came close and put his hands on Thorin's shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. "Oh, child," he said after a moment. "I am sorry."

At the words, Thorin felt a sob shake him; he dragged a sleeve across his face, feeling suddenly terribly young. "I just thought--" he stammered, "I just thought that I would be able to save you." He heard a tiny hiccoughing sniffle from behind him but could not bear to turn and look at Bilbo.

"Thorin," said Thrór. "Look at me."

Thorin looked up and met his eyes, his vision of his grandfather fracturing like the facets of a diamond.

"You saved me," Thrór said. "You pulled me from darkness and madness, you gave me back my throne, my mind, my very soul. I shall go to the halls of our fathers unbroken and whole, and shall stand there proudly." He clapped Thorin on the shoulders. "And I depart knowing that Erebor is in good hands." He smiled, the smile Thorin remembered from when he was a small child and his grandfather would give him a bit of sweet behind his father's back, and reached out to brush the tears from Thorin's face. "And now, my heir, we must discuss relations with Dain Ironfoot. His emissaries will arrive here next week and we must be ready to receive them." He glanced over Thorin's shoulder and smiled again, this one more polite and formal. "We shall not detain you, Mr. Baggins."

"Oh," said Bilbo. "If you don't mind, I'd...I'd like to stay near Thorin. I promise I won't be a bother."

Thrór's smile warmed slightly. "If you do not fear we will bore you beyond bearing, you are welcome to stay."

They talked and planned for hours, and eventually Bilbo fell asleep curled up like a child in one of the ceremonial armchairs. Thrór cast his grandson an amused look as gentle snores came from the chair, but said nothing.

* * *

"What? I'm awake! I'm not bored!" Bilbo jerked upward as Thorin shook his shoulder gently.

"The King has retired for the evening," said Thorin, crossing the room to put another log on the fire. "I have sent for dinner to be sent to our rooms. Shall we go and dine?"

"I'm...sorry about your grandfather," Bilbo said as they left the room and walked down the hall. He was getting used to the splendors of Erebor, but he still sometimes became distracted by a hidden carving of intricate detail or a flashing gem placed precisely to catch the light.

Thorin was silent a moment. "I did not think to become king so soon," he said. "Even after my grandfather was gone, I thought that my father--" He broke off and shook his head.

They walked wordlessly for a time, and then Bilbo broke the silence. "I was wondering--what did he mean, 'go to the halls of our fathers?' Is there a journey he'll have to take before…"

Thorin shot him an odd look out of the corner of his eye. "He will go to Zelem-dûm, to the place prepared for him."

"Oh." Bilbo nodded. "How far is it? Is it a long journey? Will he have to leave soon? Because I have to say I'm not sure his health is good enough for a long trip right now. Will you have to go with him?"

"How far--" Thorin stopped walking and looked at Bilbo. "Sometimes I forget how ignorant hobbits are."

"Well!" Bilbo bounced on his toes at the affront. "Haughty words from the person who assumed that heart's-ease was some kind of...magical wishing glass."

Thorin looked annoyed. He opened his mouth, then stopped, considering. "You make a valid point," he said, and only a trifle grudgingly. "Forgive me; I meant merely of the deep history of Middle Earth, of the forming of the world and the titanic events of legend."

"Oh." Bilbo shrugged. "To be honest, I don't think hobbits much care about ancient grudges or great battles. And we're not too worried about how the world got here, we're more interested in how we live on it now that it's here, you know?"

A wry expression ghosted across Thorin's face. "I must admit there may well be...advantages to that view," he said.

"All right, all right," said Bilbo. "Now that we've established that I'm an uneducated oaf--" He laughed at Thorin's expression, waving his hands to show he wasn't upset, "--explain to me what this Zelem-dûm is."

Thorin gazed at him for a long time; so long indeed that Bilbo began to feel uneasy. "Let us discuss it over dinner," he said at last, and turned away.

"When dwarves die," Thorin said soon after as he poured Bilbo a glass of wine, "Our bodies stay here in Middle Earth, but our spirits are taken to the Halls of the West, to Zelem-dûm. There we sleep in bodies of stone, cherished under our Maker's watch until the day when the world will be broken and evil destroyed--because you know elves and men can't manage that without making an impossible mess," he added with a smirk. "Then we shall come forth and be reunited with our loved ones and work together to rebuild the new world. So you see, for dwarves death is a sad parting, but it is not forever." He took a sip of his wine and gazed into the fire, not looking at Bilbo. "Is it not so for hobbits?"

"We--hobbits don't know what happens to us when we die," Bilbo said. "We actually don't think about it very much."

"Then you must share the Gift of Men," said Thorin. "For men are not tethered to this world as elves and dwarves are; they pass beyond it and their fate is a mystery."

Bilbo took a bite of bread. Thorin still wasn't looking at him. "Maybe we go to this western place and we just don't know it. Maybe it's like all that history, and we just didn't keep records of it."

Thorin shook his head. "This is not knowledge from a book," he said. "It is something we are born knowing, just as you never learn you need to breathe or how to sleep. Every dwarf knows their fate, and from my readings every elf knows in their soul that they are tied always to this world." He took another long swallow of wine, and Bilbo saw his throat work. "One day you will pass beyond all our ken, to a fate none know, and the earth will be utterly without you."

He looked at Bilbo then, and he smiled.

"The gods give strange gifts, do they not?" he said, and changed the topic.

* * *

Bilbo blinked as the gates swung open and sunlight streamed into Erebor. He hadn't been in direct sunlight in--oh, it must be weeks now, he realized as he kicked his pony into a trot to catch up with Thorin's. The southern road was busy with carts and horses carrying dwarves and men, streaming between Dale and Erebor.

"It's bigger than Bree?" Bilbo asked a trifle nervously.

"Much bigger," said Thorin. "Full of vendors that sell everything under the sun, artisans and grocers, juggler and minstrels."

"It sounds...crowded," said Bilbo. "Why are we going?"

"I have not seen the Lord of Dale since my return, and I must pay my respects." A quick, sidelong smile. "And I thought perhaps you would welcome the chance to be under the sky once more." The smile slid away. "I shall not be free to pay such spontaneous visits much longer."

Dale was indeed larger than Bree, but its cobbled streets were wider and cleaner than that city's, and they moved easily through the streets without being jostled. Thorin pulled his hood up to hide his face from curious eyes, but most people were more curious about the hobbit than the long-absent prince. They bought skewers of spicy meat and nibbled as they watched a puppet show performed for a crowd of laughing human and dwarf children--the story of the Island of Fools. The puppets capered in ribald burlesque, and at the end the island sank into an impressively-realistic sea of waving cloth, to the applause of the audience.

Bilbo bought Thorin a soft velvet cap that matched his eyes, and Thorin bought Bilbo a leather pouch stamped with stylized flowers, and as the sun was starting to sink in the sky, they made their way to the main hall of Dale.

"May I help you?" asked an officious-looking man with ink-stained fingers as they walked in.

Thorin bowed politely and Bilbo echoed him. "Would you inform the lord Bard that Thorin of Erebor, grandson of King Thrór, has come to pay him a visit?"

The clerk's eyes widened and he hurried from the room. Moments later a surprisingly young man with long dark hair, clad in simple clothing, entered. "My Lord Thorin," he said. "I am Bard: be welcome in Dale."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," said Thorin, and Bard smiled slightly.

"I met you once before, my Lord. You came to speak to my father after--after you left Erebor. I was playing with toy soldiers in his office, and you took a moment and greeted me. I asked my father who you were, later, and he said 'He is a prince, and none shall tell me otherwise.'" Bard inclined his head. "I am pleased that you have your rightful place once more."

"I was grieved to hear of your father's death," said Thorin. "He was a good man."

"I try to live up to his name," said Bard.

Thorin moved to indicate Bilbo, who stepped forward, feeling awkward. "May I introduce to you my husband, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He is--what is the matter?"

Bilbo was rather certain he looked as if he had been hit over the head with a rock. "Husband?" he squeaked.

Thorin frowned. "Will you pardon us for a moment?" he said to Bard, who nodded, looking vaguely amused. Thorin pulled Bilbo into a corner. "Did I introduce you incorrectly?" He looked worried. "We have not your 'calling cards' here, so--"

"You called me your husband," Bilbo said, blinking rapidly.

Thorin grimaced. "Is that not the correct word? Or--" His look of worry deepened into something close to panic. "Perhaps I have made an incorrect assumption. It means the male person with whom you are--" He broke off and growled something about 'cursed translations,' "--with whom you are bound in love? Does that not...apply? I thought I had made my feelings clear."

"No, that's--" Bilbo looked over at Bard, who was reading over some paperwork with intense concentration. "That is what it means. And it applies, certainly. Of course. Without a doubt. It's just that...usually we don't call someone our husband until after a wedding."

Mingled relief and exasperation replaced the worry on Thorin's face. " _That_ custom! It is so important? You are not my husband until someone else says you are? Who gets to decide something like that if not the people involved?" He shook his head. "Of all the strange customs I have heard, that truly gilds the topaz."

Bilbo blinked; Thorin tended to lapse into dwarvish idiom when he was nervous, but it seemed that matched with the Westron "takes the cake."

Thorin grumbled and tugged on his beard. "So if I cannot call you my husband, how shall I introduce you? My lover? My beloved?"

Bilbo felt himself blushing right up to the roots of his hair. "I...I don't think hobbits introduce _anyone_ that way," he stammered. "How about friend? Or comrade? Companion?"

"Faugh!" Thorin looked disgusted. "Those are all correct, but none is sufficient. Your name will have to suffice--and the obviously high regard I have of you." He turned back to Bard, who looked up from his paperwork with a clear "I was absolutely not listening to you" look on his face. "Lord Bard, may I introduce to you Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, whom I hold in the highest of esteem. The _very_ highest of esteem," he added pointedly as Bard bowed to Bilbo.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baggins," said Bard, and there was only the slightest smile at the corners of his mouth. "And I hope His Majesty the King is recovering."

"The King is dying," Thorin said with no preamble, but Bilbo could see how uttering the words shook him to the core. "If you wish to pay him your respects, you must come soon."

Bard sat down heavily. "I grieve to hear it," he said. "The last years have been hard, but he ruled well and wisely for long decades." He looked at Thorin. "I thank you for coming in person to give me this news. I shall travel to Erebor within the week to see him."

They spoke of other things, of trade treaties and garrisons, and now Bard spoke to Thorin as one who would be soon a fellow ruler.

Bilbo watched Thorin's shoulders settle under the weight of that regard, and he grieved for more than the King.

* * *

The door to the King's chambers opened slowly, and all the peoples waiting in the audience hall looked up. Bilbo saw Gimli rose to his feet to stand by his father as Thorin stepped from the rooms. He took a step forward and leaned heavily for a moment on the doorjamb; behind him Bilbo caught a glimpse of Dís, her jaw set, and Balin, tears running freely down his face and into his beard.

Then Thorin straightened and squared his shoulders, stepped forward into the hall.

"The King Under the Mountain, the Lord of Erebor, Thrór, is dead," he said.

"The King is dead," cried Gimli. "Long live the King!" And he dropped to one knee before Thorin.

"Long live the King!" echoed all of the assembly, a great cry that shook the mountain, and they bowed down. All around him Bilbo could hear the rustling of cloth and the creaking of leather as the dwarves of Erebor knelt. Next to him, Dori went to his knees, his arm around his little brother the scribe, who was weeping. Even Balin and Fíli and Kíli, standing behind him, even Dís, knelt before the new King Under the Mountain.

Only Bilbo remained standing, alone of all the people there. His knees seemed unable to bend, frozen in place by the mute misery of Thorin's eyes.

Thorin looked at him for a long moment, then stepped close to him. He put one hand on Bilbo's shoulder and leaned near.

"Do you remember," he murmured, "In Annuminas, when you told me I did not seem very princely to you?"

"I remember," Bilbo said, and then could say no more.

"I shall miss those days, and wandering the wide world with you," said Thorin. "My comrade, my companion, my friend."

* * *

The days lengthened still more, and soft rains fell, until all the outside world was covered in a mist of green budding leaves.

And one day Thorin could not find Bilbo, and so at last he went up the back tunnel that led to the little swath of soil perched on the flanks of Erebor.

Bilbo was there, staring at a patch of ground that had been tilled and kept clear of weeds. All around him purple rockcress sprouted from the cracks in the boulders, and a gnarled cherry tree above him had burst into blossom, but the scrap of garden lay empty and barren.

"I brought some viola seeds," said Bilbo as Thorin drew near. "I planted them here. I didn't think--I knew it wasn't likely, but--" He dragged his sleeve roughly across his face. "I just thought maybe."

"Some things do not thrive in rocky ground," said Thorin.

"Not even if they want to?"

"Not even if they want to."

They stood and looked at the bare ground, and beyond it at the lands to the West, blooming under the touch of spring. A thrush landed in the cherry tree and a shower of petals rained down. Bilbo's shoulders were shaking, and Thorin took his cloak and flung it around them both, drawing Bilbo to sit on a rock at his side.

"We dwarves have a tale," he said. "It is a secret tale, but I shall share it with you now. It concerns Mahal--but for this telling I shall call him by his Elvish name, Aulë, for that is the name Yavanna knows him by."

"Yavanna?" Bilbo's voice was a small thing, a tiny spark of light.

"Yes, Yavanna, she who loves all growing things, all plants and trees and animals. They met in the crafting of the Great Music, before the world ever came to be. Many of the Valar came together in this crafting, and found one who sang the same tune as they, and pledged themselves forever. So met Manwe and Varda, and Tulkas and Nessa, and even dark Namo and Vaire the Weaver, singing in unison their great themes. But Aulë and Yavanna's meeting was otherwise: for they sang different songs; and yet they found that when they sang together the result was sweet indeed. So they of all the Valar first created harmony, and found that with differences can come greater beauty, greater joy, greater love."

He plucked a single white petal from Bilbo's hair and held it out to him; Bilbo took it with a watery smile.

"And when the world was made, and the first spring came, Yavanna bid Aulë farewell. 'I must go while the earth is full of life and beauty, I cannot stay here trapped in stone,' she said.

"But Aulë said, 'The beauty you hold so dear will wither and fade. Stay with me here, among the unchanging glory of emeralds and sapphires, and seek not the fleeting beauty of leaves and flowers.' But she could not stay, and so she kissed him farewell and wandered far from his halls, walking with her feet bare against the earth, glorying in its changing seasons and all its life, yet missing her chosen partner all the while. And Aulë was sorrowful, but dedicated his days to crafting great beauty, and their hearts stayed with each other always.

"When winter came, and the trees grew bare and all the blossoms fell, then Yavanna came back weeping to the halls of Aulë. And he comforted her, and showed her the beauteous things he had made to distract her and make her laugh, and their love blossomed anew among the snows until the spring came once more."

Thorin pulled the cloak closer around the both of them and went on: "And so it is always with them, that they are separated for long seasons, and yet their love stays true and steady, unshaken by distance or time. Among us there are couples sworn in love who are so, who see each other but rarely and who will spend months or even years apart, yet their hearts remain steadfast. These we call the Valar-touched, for their love is a sacred thing."

"Valar-touched." Bilbo chuckled quietly. "Well, the folks at home will certainly agree with the 'touched' part at least, I suspect."

"Perhaps--" Thorin heard the hoarseness in his own voice and broke off for a moment, then forged ahead. "Perhaps in some other world, we might have had more."

Then Bilbo turned to him, and his smile was merry and true and only slightly sad, and he kissed him, saying,

"But certainly, in some other world, we could have had so much less."


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo prepares to leave Erebor and farewells are said--but farewells are not forever.

_"Promise?"_

Fíli and Kíli spoke in unison, and if Bilbo was tempted to smile at all, the urgency in their eyes helped him suppress it.

"Of course I'll come back and visit," he said reassuringly, picking up a pair of paisley-patterned socks and folding them carefully. "Demand for Shire tea is apparently quite high here in Erebor, I shall have to return to check and see what varieties to ship east."

"We won't be able to come see you, I don't think," said Fíli. "It looks like we'll be too busy. Uncle says he relies on our help so much lately." He tried to sound regretful, but his delight shone through his words and he bounced on the balls of his feet, the braids in his beard quivering with his smile.

"But we're not asking for us--although we'll miss you terribly, of course," said Kíli. "We're asking for Uncle Thorin. He might not show it much, but he'll miss you too, you know."

"Oh," said Bilbo with a small smile, "I know." He reached up and clasped Kíli's shoulder in one hand and Fíli's in another. "Thank you for sharing the road with me, my friends. You are fine warriors and better princes, and the very best of comrades."

Kíli's lower lip was trembling and he rubbed his sleeve across his face. "Mother says it's not shameful to weep at partings," he muttered.

"Of course it's not," said Bilbo, and pulled them both close for a long embrace.

* * *

"You needn't be so careful in your packing, Bilbo," said Balin. "We can take as many mules as we need."

"And you'll have the two of us to keep you safe," added Dwalin, smacking a fist into his hand with satisfaction. "It's been months since I've had a good fight!"

"He's more likely to get into a bar brawl than to encounter any goblins," Balin said reassuringly to Bilbo, who was gazing in dismay at his overflowing bags.

"I would prefer to travel lighter," Bilbo said, scratching his head. "But I can't leave behind the silver salt and pepper shakers Dori gave me, or the crystal buttons from Mîn. And it would be rude to not take the bronze shield from Gimli, although I can't imagine when I'd need a shield! And oh dear, I certainly can't leave this," he said, fingering a rich brocade cloak with a raven picked out in golden thread, a parting gift from Thrór. "I must say, you dwarves are certainly ones for lavish gifts."

Dwalin clapped him on the back. "It is no more than you deserve, Bilbo, for saving the Line of Durin."

"In more ways than one," added Balin, attempting to push a pair of filigreed bracers--a gift from Dís--into a bulging bag.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Bilbo," said Dwalin. "We dwarves are not usually given to fancy words and pretty speeches. We show our hearts through deeds--and through gifts."

"Hobbits are not much different," Bilbo said, "But a good bottle of wine and a loaf of home-baked bread take up much less space on the mantle in the long run. Not that I'm complaining," he said hastily as he picked up the set of pens with ruby nibs from Balin and found a corner of space for them. "I just feel awkward that I can't give anything back."

"Just come back and see us now and then," said Balin.

Bilbo brightened. "That's a good point! I can bring more biscuits and sweets then."

Balin smiled as if Bilbo had somehow missed the point, but all he said was "Those would be pleasant too."

* * *

"I'm surprised you're letting him go."

Thorin looked up from the trade agreements with Rohan he was considering to gaze at Dís, but said nothing.

"You can act as cool as you want in front of the others, but I know you," she said.

"Then I am surprised you can even speak of my 'letting' him do anything, sister. I would no more keep him here than try to trap Spring in a bottle."

She looked at him keenly, then pulled a chair to sit down closer to him. "You would go with him," she said. "If it were yours to choose."

He flinched as if she had placed her finger on a raw wound, saw her notice it. "But it is not," he said. "Thráin brought us to the brink of war with Gundabad, shattered the faith of our people. It is imperative that the line of succession be followed faithfully, that tradition win out over chaos. They cannot feel abandoned by yet another of the Line of Durin, not now."

"That you have so many arguments marshaled reveals the turmoil in your own heart," she said.

He smiled then, a small and bittersweet smile. "Sister, I will tell only you this, and only once. He followed me across the world, and I would in turn gladly follow him wherever fate would lead him, for as long as I was allowed, whether to the quiet fields of the Shire or to the uttermost ends of the world. But as long as my duty keeps me here, such things are not to be." He drew the paper close to him again and bent his head to it. "Do not speak to me of this again," he said in a whisper. "For my own sake."

She sat for a time in silence, and he dared not look at her, dared not glimpse her expression at his traitorous and shameful confession. Finally she stood and went to the door. He heard her skirts rustle as she turned, then heard her voice.

"Brother, I swear that I and my sons will do all we can to help you fulfill your duty to Erebor. And one day we shall speak of this again, but for now our family shall devote itself to healing the Lonely Mountain."

And then she was gone. Thorin blinked at the blurry words on the paper-- _Fengel, son of Folcwine, son of Folca, sends salutations to the King of Erebor_ \--until they cleared and sharpened.

Then he turned to his work once more.

* * *

"I wish to give you something."

"Oh, but--you've given me so much already," Bilbo faltered, looking around their room one last time. The mules were all loaded, the packing completed. Just outside the gate people were gathering to bid farewell to Mister Baggins of the Shire, and Balin and Dwalin were waiting for him. He touched the star brooch at his throat. "I don't really need anything more to remember you by."

"This is not a simple love-token," Thorin said. He opened a chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a silk-wrapped bundle. It chimed softly in his hands, a sweet sound like a splashing brook. 

When he opened the wrapping, a shirt of mail, glittering like light on water, cascaded down.

"You get into so much trouble that I thought it might be wisest not to send you away without some protection," he said as Bilbo gaped.

"Well--I only get into trouble when I'm with you," Bilbo managed, his eyes still caught by the glimmering flow of what had to be _mithril._ He reached out a tentative hand and let the shirt run through his fingers, as cool and soft as silk. "I'm sure without you around my life will be utterly safe and...and quite boring."

"Take off your cloak," said Thorin. "You shall wear it as you leave our gates." 

Bilbo unfastened his brooch and let the cloak whisper to the ground. Thorin lifted the shirt and dropped it over his head; Bilbo braced himself for the weight of the mail falling on his shoulders, but it was as light as a flower petal. 

"It was mine when I was a--when I was younger," said Thorin. Bilbo was fairly certain he had been going to say "when I was a child" and changed his mind. "I had the proportions altered slightly to suit you."

"It's...beautiful," he whispered, looking down at the intricate links. "Thank you."

Thorin stooped and picked up his cloak, settled it around his shoulders. He took the star brooch and pinned it once more. His hands were trembling, and Bilbo reached up to catch them in his own.

"I have no such treasure to give you," he said. "But you know what it is I leave with you."

"I could ask for no greater treasure," said Thorin, and drew him close.

* * *

The _Red Book of Westmarch_ reports that it was a bright and sunny day when Bilbo Baggins left the Lonely Mountain, and that the air smelled of spring. The _Annals of Erebor_ make no mention of the weather, but do record that dwarves by the thousands massed at the gates and on the ramparts as the only honorary dwarf in Middle Earth rode out with his companions. They add that King Thorin kissed him farewell, and all the people of the Lonely Mountain cheered "until the very rocks seemed to cry out."

And so Bilbo Baggins started on the long road to the Shire alongside his friends Balin and Dwalin, and he waved back over his shoulder until he could no longer see anything of Thorin, until the road carried him around a corner and the gates of Erebor vanished from his sight. The _Red Book_ does not record if he wept as he turned his face at last to the west; nor do the _Annals_ tell us if the King of Erebor returned to his quarters in silence and spoke to no one for hours, gazing into the fire and thinking long on things he locked in the chambers of his heart and shared with none.

But then, these events marked the end of but the first of their journeys together, and by no means the greatest or most difficult; but of those later travels in the lands beyond Dorwinion and the Sea of Rhûn, and their effects on the world of Middle Earth, much has been written elsewhere. Yet for many years an uneasy peace ruled the land, and the might of the dwarves of Erebor grew, and trade flourished between the Shire and the Lonely Mountain; even as a dark power marshaled its forces in the east and prepared to reach forth its hand to reclaim what was its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin's story will continue in the one-shot "Letters from Erebor," (to be posted no later than April 18) and then the story of the fate of this world's Ring will be told in "Clarity of Purpose" (posting will begin no later than May 16!)
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful support for this story and for coming with Thorin and Bilbo on their journey! Your feedback and enthusiasm has meant the world to me. I promise I will not leave them separate forever, though the road east may be a hard one...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Viola Tea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134620) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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